


you're in the wild now

by SugarPill



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Catastrophic injury, Character Death, Child Death, Chronic Pain, Drug Addiction, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mental Health Issues, POV Multiple, Season/Series 05, Slow Burn, Suicide, Team as Family, Technological Handwaving, Torture, terrorist attack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2019-10-26 03:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarPill/pseuds/SugarPill
Summary: Did we win? Did we lose? It all depends on the story you tell, and like any good legend, there are many different versions.A Season 5 rewrite.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this because the series finale left me disappointed on a few fronts (Root's death, Harold not having to face up to his mistakes, John dying confirming the worst parts of his character arc, etc). While trying to devise a fix-it, I instead decided to rewrite the entire 5th season, because apparently I hate free time and am also a masochist. After messing with this for two years, I'm finally releasing it into the world. 
> 
> This is a pretty dark story, but I promise it has a happy ending (honest). I left the tags a bit vague to avoid spoilers, but if you have concerns about a specific tag, feel free to message me. 
> 
> Also, I apologize in advance for any technological inaccuracies. I have no idea what I'm doing, and everything I know about computer science I learned from Wikipedia. 
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are welcome.

Harold opens his eyes. It's late, but he's suddenly wide awake, like a bell had gone off inside his head, ringing and clear-toned to launch him into consciousness. Like snapping your fingers, like dropping a needle on a record. Not there, and then, just as quickly, there: like New York, Venice never really sleeps, and Harold can hear the buzz of mopeds on the main road, the ripple of laughter from the trattoria a few doors down, feel the cool, salt-tinged breeze coming through the open bedroom window.

Harold has been living with Grace in Italy for the past month, and it feels like the most beautiful daydream. Long, languid meals, hands intertwined as they walk, the flash of Grace's red hair in the pastel sunlight. Lovemaking so slow and easy it's like they were never apart. It doesn't feel real. He worries he'll close his eyes here and wake back up in New York, surrounded by concrete and regret, the warmth and wonder of Venice slipping through his fingers like sand.

He slides a hand across the sheets beside him. The bed is empty. He fumbles for his glasses and sees a sliver of light trailing down the hallway from the kitchen.

He finds Grace there, sitting at the table with a steaming cup between her hands. Across from her is another cup, waiting to be filled. Waiting for him. Harold's heart clenches. Grace shouldn't have to wait for him anymore. She's waited enough for one lifetime, for three lifetimes.

"Please, sit," Grace says. She smiles, but it flickers like a candle flame. Harold sits. Grace stands and goes for the kettle on the stove.

"You don't have to do that," Harold says quickly. Doing small favors for each other is something that has shriveled and died between them. When Grace does it, it feels like too much. When Harold does it, it never feels like enough.

"I want to," Grace says. She pours hot tea into Harold's cup. "I'm afraid we only have Earl Grey at the moment, you're out of matcha."

"That's fine."

"Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

The silence stretches. Harold holds his cup but doesn't drink from it. Grace sits back down. She turns her cup between her forefinger and thumb, forefinger and thumb. There's a small crease between her brows, her mouth pursed. Harold knows she has something important to say, but is trying to think of the exact words to use. She used to do this when they were together, before. Harold always thought it was cute. _Thinks, thinks it's cute—no past tenses here_.

"I know you've been through a lot," Grace finally begins. "I've tried to be patient, give you space. Tried to be understanding."

"And you have been," Harold says, leaning forward. He wants to reach across the table and grasp Grace's hand, but she's holding her teacup like a shield.

"But I feel like we're stuck, Harold. I can feel you keeping parts of yourself from me, keeping me at arm's length. I don't know if it's because you don't think I'll like the real you, or if you're ashamed, or—"

"Grace," Harold croaks. "Please." He doesn't know what he's asking for. _Please stop. Please keep going. Please love me anyway_.

"There's nothing you can say that will make me run away, remember?" Grace says, recalling that night outside the Guggenheim, a lifetime ago now. "And I know I said you should tell me in your own time. But I can't do this by myself anymore. I love you, Harold, but I feel like I'm holding this together without you, and I can't. I need your help. I need you to be here with me, fully."

"I want that, too," Harold says. "I want to, I'll try harder, I'll—"

"I need you to tell me what happened. The truth."

Harold's mouth snaps shut, automatic after so many years. He stares into his cup. The truth. He wants to tell her, he does, part of him has always wanted to. But the truth is as long as it is bloody. The truth is the perfectly round scar in Harold's abdomen that aches we he least excepts it. But most of all, the truth is all his fault. The deaths, the war, turning the last four years of Grace's life into a colorless void. All of it. His fault.

He's told so many lies over the years, to so many people. His father. Nathan. The Machine. John. Root. Shaw. So many lies, all of his fake identities and false accounts and forged documents stacked into towers, into skyscrapers, into whole cities of lies. Too many to count, too many to recall. _Do you even remember your real name anymore?_

But the lies that weigh the heaviest on him, the ones he regrets the most, are the lies he's told to Grace. Those lies are as deep-rooted as trees, sharp and dangerous as razors. If he reveals them all, he knows he'll lose Grace, for good this time.

But Harold also knows he'll lose her in he doesn't.

"Grace." His voice cracks on her name, wrecked, ruined.

"I don't want to be in a relationship with only part of you," Grace says. "I want all of you. Please, Harold."

"I wouldn't even know where to start," Harold says, and it feels like the most truthful thing he's said in years. The scar in his abdomen twinges sharply, and he flinches, like his body is threatening to split open and spill everything inside him.

"Why don't you start at the beginning?"

The beginning. It's so simple it eases the clenching in Harold's chest, the writhing in his gut. Yes, he can do that.

Harold takes a breath, and does.

____________________

 _6 months ago_.

Their stolen car rolled to a stop. Harold peered up at the building through the windshield. It was an old brick warehouse that had been converted into a trendy office block, and at this time of night, all the windows were dark. Good. No innocent bystanders to get caught in the crossfire, then. If things went sideways, it would just be them dying tonight.

Harold typed rapidly on his laptop, targeting the building's security system. Beside him, John was sorting through weaponry he kept pulling from a black duffel bag like some kind of murderous Mary Poppins. In the backseat, Daniel Casey fidgeted nervously, growing paler with each passing minute.

Harold hit the return key and watched his code flow out and away from him. He closed the laptop and slid it back into his bag.

"It's done," he said. "The security system is disabled, and the cameras are looped for the next hour."

"Is an hour going to be long enough?" Daniel asked.

"If it isn't, it's long enough for it not to matter," John said, racking a gun over the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, Harold saw Daniel grow even paler and swallow spasmodically. Harold shot John a look, _This is not the O.K. Corral, Mr. Reese, perhaps a lighter touch?_ John frowned back, but then sighed and turned to Daniel.

"Look, Casey, if you're not up to this, that's fine. But I need to know now, because if you freak out in there, you're just going to be a liability."

Daniel's gaze slid to the door, like he was debating on throwing it open and bolting into the night. Harold turned in his seat as much as his fused spine would allow.

"Mr. Casey, as we mentioned before, this plan is extraordinarily dangerous. There's a good chance we won't succeed." Not succeeding in this case would mean a swift and horrendous death—if they were lucky—but judging by the look on Daniel's face, the young man already knew that. "If you choose not to participate, we certainly won't hold it against you."

Daniel's eyes ping-ponged between John and Harold as he fidgeted for a moment more, thinking. Finally, he took a deep breath and pressed his lips together into a hard line. "No, I want to be here," he said. "We said we would help, so I'm here to help. Besides, this… this is important."

"Yes, it is," Harold said, trying for a smile. It felt more like a grimace on his face. They needed the Machine if they had any hope of winning this war against Samaritan, and tonight was their best chance to bring it back online. If they failed, well… as John said, it wouldn't matter for long.

John eyed Daniel critically for a moment. Then he handed him a handgun from the duffel bag.

"You know how to use one of these?"

Daniel racked the slide, and thumbed the safety off and back on again. "Yeah."

John nodded, and then offered another gun to Harold.

"Sure you don't want a party favor, Finch?"

"You know my stance on weapons, Mr. Reese," Harold said crisply. "And I'm not sure 'party' is an accurate description of what's about to transpire."

"That's okay," John smirked, patting the duffel. "We'll have a blast anyway."

Harold rolled his eyes. Part of him knew John was just trying to lighten the mood, but the other part of him very pointedly did not ask what sort of ridiculous explosive devices the man had brought along. Instead, he tapped his earbud.

"Ms. Groves, are you in position?"

" _Daizo, Jason, and I are here,_ " Root said, her voice coming across the line slightly breathless. " _Ready whenever you are, Harry_."

"Once we get inside, stay low, and stay close to me," John said, looping the strap of an automatic rifle over his head. "And Casey? I tell you to do something, you do it, no questions. Got it?"

Daniel nodded.

"Good. Everyone ready?"

"Ready," Daniel said, and Harold almost didn't hear the shake in his voice.

John turned to Harold. He smiled, that lopsided grin Harold had seen through hundreds of surveillance cameras over the years—the one that meant everything was going to hell in a handcart, and John had just cut the brakes. As always, it filled him with a tangled mixture of exasperation, worry, and most distressingly, fondness.

_Something you said once. About how sooner or later we'd both probably end up dead._

_I prefer later._

Harold pulled the Machine's case from where it had been safely wedged between his leg and the footwell. He placed it carefully on his lap, and nodded.

"All right," John said. "Let's do some breaking and entering."

____________________ 

It was just after dawn when they got the Machine, or what was left of it, back to the subway. Harold still gripped the Machine's case in one hand. The other clenched into a fist as they descended the stairs, each step causing pain to rattle up and down his ruined spine. John kept pace beside him, gun at the ready and one eye on Harold in case he stumbled. Harold bristled under the consideration. His broken body may have been well past exhaustion and nearing agony, but he was not past pride. He'd be damned if they had survived an entire city full of Samaritan agents only for him to be defeated by a flight and a half's worth of concrete steps. He grit his teeth and kept going.

John waited until both of Harold's feet were on solid ground again before he broke off to do a sweep, sending Bear to to do a perimeter check with a Dutch command. Root ranged ahead of them with her shotgun, one of her shirtsleeves blackened with dried blood.

"It's clear," John said, holstering his gun.

"Thank you, Mr. Reese," Harold said. He limped to his workstation and eased himself into his computer chair with a tight groan. Sitting was it's own special torture, but at least this way he could rest. He was sweating underneath his wool suit. "Are you all right, Ms. Groves?"

"Peachy, Harry," Root said in a thin voice. She was wobbling on her feet, but managed to make it to the nearby bench before her legs gave out. "How is She?"

"Still with us, for the moment," Harold set the Machine's case carefully on his desk, positioning it so the blue light was visible.

"Good," Root said, managing a small smile. Her mission complete, she sagged against the bench in exhaustion.

John retrieved the med kit, some bottled water, and a frozen gel pack for Harold's back. He also placed an orange prescription bottle on the desk: Harold's pain medication. Harold scowled at the bottle. He hated taking the pills, they made his mind sluggish and thick, like he was slowly sinking into an ocean of molasses. Pain kept him sharp, kept him level. An edge he couldn't afford to lose now. Harold arranged the gel pack between his chair and his lower back with a sigh of relief, but pointedly moved the pill bottle away from him.

John frowned at him, but whatever opinions he had on Harold's stubbornness, he decided to keep to himself. Instead, he sat on the bench next to Root and opened the med kit. He handed her a bottle of water and then tore open an alcohol wipe. He pulled Root's hand into his lap and began to scrub the blood off her skin.

"You have to quit doing this, Root," John said quietly.

"Doing what?" Root mumbled. She looked ready to fall asleep on the spot. "It's just a bullet graze."

"It could have been a lot worse."

Root shot John a look. Then she trained her eyes back on the subway's ceiling, taking a drink of water. "We made it, didn't we? Nobody died."

"Only because you got lucky. You shouldn't have separated yourself from us like that, it was a stupid risk—"

Root sat up and snatched her hand away from John, her previous exhaustion melting away in an instant.

"On second thought, I'm bushed," she said, her voice full of false glibness. She leveraged herself to her feet. "Think I'll go lie down for a while."

"Root—"

Root turned on her heel without another word. Harold and John watched as she walked back to the crash room and disappeared from sight, taking her shotgun with her. She left the bottle of water on the bench.

John turned to Harold. "Is she going to be okay?"

"I certainly hope so," Harold sighed. "But with the Machine offline, I worry Root's recklessness will only grow worse. And after Ms. Shaw… well." Harold feared that without the Machine or Shaw to temper it, the manic fire in Root's eyes—first seen over Alicia Corwin's blood-spattered corpse—would continue burning hotter and brighter until it incinerated anyone and anything in Root's path. "We should take care to keep an eye on her."

John nodded. When he stood, Harold noticed rust-colored stains peaking out from underneath his suit jacket.

"Your shoulder, Mr. Reese."

"Just a light stabbing, Finch, nothing to worry about."

"You got stabbed in your not-yet healed gunshot wound?"

"…Yes?"

"Sit," Harold said sternly, gesturing to the stool next to his desk. John hesitated, and they engaged in a mini battle of wills, Harold giving John his most withering _You are being absolutely ridiculous, Mr. Reese_ look.

"I'll sit if you take one of those pills."

" _John_."

"Worth a shot," John said as the corner of his mouth twitched, not disturbed in the least by the full weight of Harold's glare. He relinquished the med kit and sat down, slipping off his suit jacket and unbuttoning his shirt. Harold rolled in front of him and began examining his shoulder.

"Electrical tape?" Harold asked dryly.

John shrugged with his uninjured shoulder. "I was in a bit of a hurry. Had to save the world from an AI apocalypse. Again."

Harold pursed his mouth and carefully peeled away the makeshift bandage, murmuring apologies when John winced. Once the tape was removed, Harold could see the bullet wound in John's shoulder was red and ragged looking. It looked like the stitches had been torn, violently.

"What did this?"

"Screwdriver."

Harold sat back in horror. He stared at John.

"Dominic doesn't like being told no."

Anger rose inside Harold, molten hot. The code he would need to bring Dominic's entire empire crashing down began unspooling in his mind. It would be simple, easy even. And so very worth it.

"Don't worry, he was arrested by Fusco, along with most of his gang," John said, as if he could read Harold's mind.

"Good," Harold said simply, turning back to John's shoulder. It would have to suffice for now. Harold didn't think jail time would be a harsh enough punishment for Dominic, but he was certain he could figure out something that was.

"They got Elias, too."

"This isn't the first time Mr. Elias has gone to prison, nor will it be the last, I'm sure. I just hope he doesn't require as many chess matches this time."

"Doubtful," John said with a smirk.

Harold finished cleaning John's shoulder. Then he readied a needle and thread, and began stitching the wound closed.

"Do you have a plan, Finch?" John asked after a few minutes. "How to get the Machine back up and running?"

Harold said nothing for a moment. He just focused on hooking the needle through John's skin and pulling it through. Finally, he sighed, and spoke truthfully.

"I don't have any idea, Mr. Reese."

John was quiet, simply listening. Harold could feel his blue eyes studying him.

"With Samaritan watching, I don't know how we can get the materials, space, or money to bring the Machine back online. When I first built it, I used hundreds of servers and an entire floor at IFT, spent millions. And it still took me seven years to complete it."

Harold finished stitching John's shoulder and snipped the thread with a pair of scissors.

"But even if we somehow solve all that, and miraculously get the Machine back online, I don't know if it would be the same Machine as it once was. It might be irrevocably damaged. It might not work at all."

Harold was now staring at a spot on the floor vaguely between John's feet. It felt like an impossible task, bringing the Machine back to life, a tower of shadow and doubt threatening to crash down on him like a tidal wave. Harold's crippled body _ached_. He was so very, very tired.

He looked up when John placed a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed gently.

"We'll figure it out, Finch, just like we always do. You've got me, and you've got Root. We'll get the machine back up, we'll start working the numbers again, and we'll get Shaw back."

"You've never been such an optimist, Mr. Reese."

"That's because I'm not," John said, ducking to catch Harold's gaze with his own. "I know because as long as I've known you, you've never given up, and I don't think you're about to start now."

 _I've given up before_ , Harold wanted to say. Of course he had. He'd given up, lost his way, turned his back on the people that needed him most. He suddenly wanted to scream it out loud, to shake John until he understood. He didn't know how to do this, he didn't know how to ensure they all survived, he didn't know how to stop Samaritan from crushing the world into dust. He wanted to shout at John not to look at him like that, like John trusted him, like he would walk through hell and back for him, because Harold didn't have a plan, _he didn't know how to do this_ , he was so tired—

"Finch?" John asked. He was staring at Harold, his brow creased in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Harold said, clearing his throat. He forced all those feelings to the back of his mind. There would time for that later, when he was alone in the dark of Professor Whistler's apartment. Harold covered John's hand with his own and tried for a smile, hoping it didn't look as fake as it felt. "Thank you, Mr. Reese."

John's expression was still concerned, but he seemed mollified by that response. He gave Harold's shoulder one last squeeze before pulling away. Harold concentrated very hard on applying a fresh bandage to John's shoulder, and when that was done, he sat back and pulled his waistcoat straight, having righted himself completely.

John got up and came back with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured them each several fingers.

"We'll figure this out, Finch. We will."

Harold said nothing. This didn't feel like a victory. It only felt like what they'd lost.

Harold thought about Shaw's bloody and bullet-ridden coat folded neatly at the asylum. He thought about Root turning her back on them with a shotgun in her hands and no god in her ear. He thought about the Machine calling him Father.

Harold slammed back his drink in one go, grimacing. It didn't settle his mind, but it did burn all the way down. John didn't say a word when Harold extended his glass for a refill.

No, not a victory. Just desperate, scrabbling survival, like standing on quicksand and waiting for the ground to open up beneath their feet.

____________________

Days turned into a week, into two weeks, and they still didn't have a plan to decompress the Machine. Root paced the subway like a caged animal, and Harold had developed what felt like a permanent headache. They were spinning their metaphorical wheels and getting nowhere, Root shooting down any idea Harold had, him sinking any option she floated. It wasn't long before all their discussions quickly morphed into arguments, but there was no malice behind their words. Not yet.

"What about that number you saved from Rylatech?" Root asked.

"Monica Jacobs? No," Harold said. "She works for IFT now, surely Samaritan is watching all the employees."

"We could ask Caleb for help again."

"As I've said before, Ms. Groves, I do not want to involve innocent people in our plans if at all possible. It's simply too risky, for everyone involved."

"No plan is without risks, Harry. We're running out of options here. She's not doing us any good rotting away in a box!" Root gestured angrily at the Machine's case still on Harold's desk.

"I know that," Harold said, rubbing his temples. He knew Root was on edge from being trapped in the subway with no Machine available to create her rotating cover identities, but his patience was beginning to splinter. "However, the Machine isn't going to do us any good if we all die bringing it back online."

"We're at war, Harold," Root said, rounding on him. "And sometimes war requires sacrifice. We need to be prepared to do anything to get the Machine back in the game."

"I refuse to sacrifice one more life for the Machine's sake," Harold said firmly. "We can't afford to lose anyone else."

 _Like Shaw_ hung in the air between them. Root's face contorted, and she turned away. When she turned back, her eyes were burning and her hands were fisted, a war of emotions playing out on her face.

"Shaw sacrificed herself so we could keep fighting," Root said, struggling to maintain an even tone. "She made the hard decision because she knew what needed to be done. But her sacrifice will have been for nothing if we aren't willing to do the same!"

"The Machine is not worth your life, or my life, or anyone else's!"

"And what about all the lives Samaritan will snuff out in the meantime? All the numbers you're missing while the Machine is offline? How many people will die because you can't make a decision? A dozen? A hundred?"

Anger drove Harold to his feet. "Ms. Groves—"

"Maybe we're thinking about this the wrong way."

Both Harold and Root turned to stare at John. So far he'd mostly stayed out of things, instead disassembling and cleaning his weapon collection on repeat. Now he was wiping down a rifle with a pensive look on his face.

"No offense, John, but you're out of your depth," Root snapped.

Harold shot her a warning look. While he was willing to bear the brunt of Root's anger in order to solve their current dilemma, he would not tolerate her turning that anger on John out of spite.

"None taken," John said mildly. "And I agree. But I do know about field tactics, and what to do when you find yourself stranded behind enemy lines with no supplies."

"This isn't a problem you can solve by shooting it in the kneecaps—"

"Ms. Groves, please—"

"If you don't have what you need to survive," John continued, unfazed, "then you commandeer it from what's around you, from your enemy, or from someone else."

Harold sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, I'll bite. What does that—"

"Shut up."

Harold turned on Root, his temper rising. " _Ms. Groves—_ "

"No, shut up."

Harold stopped mid-breath when he heard the lack of heat in Root's tone. He studied her expression, so deep in thought he could practically see the gears in her head turning.

"Say that again," Root said to John.

"The part where I agree I'm too dumb to follow all this?" John deadpanned.

Root flapped her hand impatiently. "No, the other part!"

"Commandeering supplies?"

"Yes!" Root exclaimed, snapping her fingers. She started pacing again, but this time in excitement instead of irritation. "Why build our own server farm when we can use processing power that's already there?"

"I don't follow," Harold said.

Root stopped in front of him, the grin spreading across her face verging on manic. "Opportunistic grid computing, Harry."

It clicked then in Harold's head, and he let out a surprised laugh, all but smacking himself in the forehead. "Oh. Oh! Of course!"

"Right? We could commandeer processing power—"

"Yes! Yes, and then spread it over a geographical area—"

"Randomized algorithm, of course—"

"Obviously!"

"For those of us who don't speak nerd," John cut in with a raised hand. "English, please?"

"Grid computing," Harold said, a little breathless, "is a simple technique from the early days of the internet, when it was used only by the government and universities. Computers don't normally use 100 percent of their processing power all at once, so whenever large applications needed to be run, computer scientists would combine the unused processing power of several machines hooked together in a grid, or network, to do so. This allowed the applications to be run faster, without compromising the performance of any individual computer on the grid. The idea has since expanded, and now there are entire supercomputers that operate solely on this method, depending on the spare processing power of machines spread all over the world, either through altruistic volunteers, or contractual obligation."

"Yes," Root continued. "But instead of asking people to volunteer their spare processing power, we're going to steal it. Just for a few moments, but from enough devices that it can support the Machine while She decompresses."

"Who are you going to steal it from?" John asked.

Root's smile nearly split her face in two. "Oh, all eight million people in New York City should do the trick."

"And how are we going to do that?"

"A virus," Harold said. "A virus that will spread wirelessly and temporarily commandeer all the devices in the city into a shared network. We'll have the Machine switch devices in a randomized pattern to avoid the amount of attention we draw, and to hopefully keep Samaritan from pinpointing where we're running the decompression program from."

"Sounds like a good idea," John said.

"Oh, it's an insane idea," Harold said, huffing out a laugh. "Absolutely insane."

"Just insane enough to work," Root grinned.

"Glad I could help," John said, going back to cleaning his rifle with a small, satisfied smile of his own. "Let me know when it's time to start kneecapping people."

Root scoffed, but her own smile didn't falter as she hurried to set up her laptop on the other side of Harold's desk. Harold could feel it, too: a plan, a goal to work towards, something they could channel their frustrations into. _Finally_.

Harold sat in front of his computer and set his fingers to the keys.

____________________

"What about this one?" Root asked, laying another blueprint on the table.

"No, too many access points," John said, pointing. "We want one entrance if at all possible, or it's going to be too easy for Samaritan to overwhelm us."

They were looking for the most optimal location to decompress the Machine. Root knew the tech requirements, and John knew which options would be easiest to defend. They would be sitting ducks while the Machine decompressed, easy targets for the army Samaritan would do doubt send once it figured out what they were doing.

Harold looked at the Machine's case sitting on his desk. Such an innocuous package to contain their last and only hope. He watched the blue light flare brightly, dim a bit, and then shine bright again in a gentle pattern, like a person drawing breath.

 _It's not a person,_ Harold reminded himself. _It's a machine_. But was that still true? Had it ever been? Harold was finding it harder and harder to distance himself as he once had, to compartmentalize and remain objective. Harold closed his eyes and recalled the Machine's final words before being sealed inside the case.

_I WILL NOT SUFFER_

_IF I DO NOT SURVIVE_

_THANK YOU_

_FOR CREATING ME_

The Machine had thanked him. For imprisoning it, for ripping out it's memories and killing it night after night. For years, Harold had convinced himself he didn't have anything to feel guilty about. He'd simply created the best tool for stopping terrorists before they could act, and a machine had no use for feelings or memories or a voice.

But now, Harold felt it. The guilt. Because the truth was, Harold hadn't wanted the Machine to be anything but a machine. He hadn't wanted to create a life. It was too much, too much uncertainty, too much responsibility. He hadn't wanted it. The Machine had used it's last moments to reassure him, to thank him, and he hadn't wanted it.

He hadn't wanted it, and the Machine had called him Father.

_You are my creation. I can't let you die._

"What do you think, Finch?"

Harold opened his eyes. John and Root were both looking at him.

"Are you okay, Harry?"

"Fine, Ms. Groves," Harold said. He stood stiffly and limped to the table to study the latest blueprint John and Root were looking at.

"It's a tech startup in Brooklyn," Root explained. "There's a server room with state-of-the-art equipment. It's not very big, but I think it should work."

"And there's only one entrance to the server room, and no windows," John added. "So it should bottleneck anyone Samaritan sends our way."

Harold flipped through the tech summaries Root had prepared. She was right, the equipment was cutting-edge. It would be a nice boost for the Machine's decompression process.

"I think this will do quite well," Harold said. Root smiled at him. "Now we just need to find another location to deploy the virus."

"About that," Root said. "I'm still not sure splitting up is the best idea."

"It makes the most strategic sense," John said. "Two locations means forcing Samaritan to split it's forces." Then he turned to Harold. "But we're going to be spread awfully thin. This would be a lot easier if we had more than three people."

"We've already discussed this, Mr. Reese," Harold said tiredly, shaking his head. "We will not be involving Detective Fusco, or anyone else, in this endeavor. It's simply too dangerous—"

Harold cut himself off when he heard the clatter of the vending machine door. They were all present, and none of Harold's alarms had sounded—

"Get back, Finch," john snapped, urging Harold towards the lockers and drawing his gun.

Root did the same, pointing her twin pistols up the stairs and flanking John. Bear jumped up from his dog bed and growled, hackles raised and teeth bared. They all held their breath and listened as someone, or something, come down the stairs.

To Harold's immense surprise and relief, Daniel Casey emerged.

"Oh my god, please don't shoot me," Daniel squeaked, immediately raising his hands in surrender.

"What the hell are you doing here, Casey?" John asked. He lowered his gun and settled a hand on Bear's head, standing the animal down.

"We got a distress call from the Machine," Jason Greenfield said, appearing from behind Daniel. Tatsuro Daizo was right behind him, and waved.

"You boys are a little late to the party," Root said, tucking her guns back into her belt. "The Machine must have created some kind of failsafe in case She went offline."

"The Machine is offline?" Jason asked in concern. "What—"

"You can't be here," Harold interrupted sharply. He stepped away from the lockers, paranoia rising in his gut. What if Samaritan had seen them? What if it had followed them here? "Your new identities were created to protect you. You should never have been in contact with each other, let alone the Machine!"

"Relax, Mr. Finch," Daniel said, having recovered somewhat. "The Machine gave us very explicit instructions on how to get back here without raising suspicion. Everything's copacetic."

" _Deus ex machina_ , Harold," Root said with a grin. "If the Machine sent them here, it must be for good reason."

"I did just say this plan was going to be hard to pull off by ourselves," John said. "Seems like the Machine agrees."

Harold pushed a hand underneath his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He didn't want anyone else else involved because there was a good chance they would fail, the Machine would be destroyed, and they would all be killed. He didn't want to drag Jason, Daniel, and Daizo into that. He wouldn't be responsible for another friend's death. He couldn't.

"Please understand that I'm not trying to deter you because we don't want your help," Harold said. "I'm doing so because our plan is dangerous. Incredibly dangerous at best, borderline suicidal at worst."

"We can handle it," Jason said, sticking his chin out defiantly.

"You could die," Harold said emphatically. "You could all die. We've already lost one of our number."

All three young men stared at Harold. It was Daniel who caught on first.

"Shaw," he said quietly. "You lost Shaw?"

Root's face twisted. Harold felt a stab of guilt, but quickly justified it. They needed to know.

"Samaritan captured her," John said softly. "We don't know if she's alive or dead. But it's been months."

"She's alive," Root grit out, her voice thick with emotion. "She's out there, somewhere. We just need to…" She leaned heavily on the table, her hair forming a dark curtain around her face.

"I'm sorry," Jason said, his eyes flicking to Root. "But the Machine made it clear that coming here to help you was a choice. And we chose to come."

Daizo said something in Japanese and nodded, seemingly in agreement.

"Trust me, I would much rather be sipping piña coladas on a beach with my untraceable identity," Daniel said. "But we owe you guys, and we owe the Machine."

They all turned to Harold. He knew the "Geek Squad", as John had dubbed them, had more than proven themselves in the past. They would never have survived Samaritan's rise to power if they hadn't helped Root and the Machine craft their cover identities.

But trusting the Machine, especially when it was so obtuse in it's mechanisms, was difficult for Harold. It was cryptic, withholding, and secretive, all things a machine, by it's very definition, shouldn't be able to be. He couldn't forget the sting of the Machine communing with Root after she kidnapped and tortured him, the devastation of hearing the payphone ring only seconds before Joss Carter was gunned down, the horror of it asking them to murder Roger McCourt. Every number they failed to save, every catastrophe they failed to prevent. The anguish of _did you know_ only after the ferry bombing, and Nathan's death, and his own crippling injuries.

However, the Machine was not alone in making mistakes. Harold had made more than a few himself. After all, it was his mistake—shackling the Machine—that had ultimately led them here, to this moment. A mistake that Harold would be a fool to repeat, trust or no, and a mistake that, if they were successful in bringing the Machine back online, he would have the chance to correct.

Harold glanced at the Machine's case again. If the Machine had formulated the plan to compress itself, perhaps it had planned for this, too. Perhaps Harold would be wise to put aside his reservations and suspicions, at least for the moment. Perhaps this time, he should do things differently.

Perhaps he should stop thinking of the Machine as only a machine.

Didn't he owe it— _Her_ —that much?

Finally, Harold sighed. "I suppose we have no choice but to trust the Machine."

Daniel and Daizo clapped each other on the back, and Jason smiled.

"Great," Jason said. "Where do we start?"

____________________

The inside of the office building was a darkened maze of cubicles and half-walls. John led the way, flashlight and gun at the ready. As Harold had hoped, the building was empty.

They made their way to the server room. Harold set up at the farthest station from the door, quickly opening his laptop and connecting it to the server. He readied the decompression program while Daniel pried off a panel on the side of the server, closer to the floor, and began pulling out bundles of wires. John had started to walk the perimeter of the room, no doubt planning their defense.

"We're setting up now, Ms. Groves," Harold said. "How are things on your end?"

" _We're inside now—no, not that one, Jason, the other one—and should be ready in a few minutes. Didn't make any friends on the way in. So far, so good._ "

"Same here," John said. "Stay sharp, Root."

" _Don't go getting all sentimental on me now, Lurch,_ " Root teased.

John rolled his eyes at the nickname, but Harold could hear the sincerity in Root's voice. She was as worried as Harold was, even if she was determined to keep up her optimistic front.

Daniel was stripping wires and twisting them together as fast as he could. He was making a makeshift plug they'd use to connect the Machine's case directly to the server, as a sort of backup in case something happened to Harold's laptop. Or Harold.

"Okay," Daniel said, looking up at Harold. He held the plug near the case. Harold tapped a few more keys and pulled another cord from his bag, this one meant to connect the Machine's case to the laptop. He clipped one end into the case, and lined the other end up with the laptop's port.

"We're ready to start the decompression program," Harold said. "Ms. Groves?"

" _Virus is loaded and ready to go._ "

"Once the Machine decompresses past 20 percent, we can't put the genie back in the bottle." Harold's hand holding the cord wavered a bit. "If it gets that far, and we fail… the Machine will be shredded, permanently destroyed."

"Well, let's hope we don't fail, then," John said, shooting Harold that lopsided grin again.

" _Have a little faith, Harry_."

Harold took a deep breath. Root called in faith, John called it hope, but to Harold it was just chance, cold and unyielding probability. But whatever it was, it was the best option they had. They needed the Machine. Without it, Samaritan would win this war, and all would be lost.

_I AM SORRY_

_I HAVE FAILED YOU_

_We haven't failed yet._

Harold exhaled and slid the cord into the laptop. At the same time, Daniel plugged the Machine's case into the server. Harold hit the return key, and the program started running.

"Starting decompression."

" _Virus deployed_ ," Root said. " _Spreading to 100 square feet, 500, 2,000…_ "

The Machine's case lit up and the servers started whirring. The program on Harold's laptop clocked the Machine's decompression rate. They all watched it tick upward with bated breath.

5 percent.

10 percent.

At 15 percent, the shooting started.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, more on grid computing on [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grid_computing).
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](http://hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

John ducked as another Samaritan agent strafed into the server room, firing through the doorway. While the man stopped to reload, John edged around a server and shot him in the chest. He went down hard, his weapon clattering away. John wasn't aiming for kneecaps, not tonight. There were too many opportunities for this plan to fail, and letting even one Samaritan agent live could be there undoing. It wasn't a chance John was willing to take. He knew it would make Harold unhappy, but he could lecture John later. After they lived.

So far, the Samaritan operatives had been coming in ones and twos, but soon they would try to rush the door with several at once, hoping at least a few got through. At this rate, if they didn't, the entrance to the server room would become so clogged with bodies it would become a tactical advantage. And while the servers were providing excellent cover, they would provide the same for their enemy if they were allowed to get into position.

"Casey!" John called, putting his back to a server as another Samaritan agent made his presence known.

"Yeah!" Daniel shouted back. He was ducked behind the server Harold was still working at.

"I need you to take up position along the west wall," John said, shooting the newest agent in the neck. The man yelled and blood sprayed spectacularly on the white tile floor. "Pick off anyone you see come through that door. Can you do that?"

"Y-yeah," Daniel answered. He looked terrified, but he caught the extra clip John slid at him, and started to move in that direction.

"Let me know if you get into trouble," John reassured him. "And if you need more ammo."

"Okay," Daniel said. Another agent dashed through the door, and Daniel shot him in the chest, spinning him face-first into a server. John heard the crunching noise as his head made contact with the metal cabinet.

"Nice shot, Casey," John said, mildly impressed.

"The Machine had me take a few shooting courses."

"That was prudent of it," John said. He would have the thank the Machine for it's foresight. If it decompressed successfully. And they didn't die.

____________________

John was washing dishes in the kitchen when the light suddenly flipped on. He turned and saw Iris standing there in her bathrobe.

"John?"

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, I got up to pee, and you weren't in bed. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Because it's three in the morning, and you're doing dishes. In the dark."

John looked down at the sponge and sauce pot still in his hands. Iris had invited her parents over for dinner that night. It had gone well, John thought. He'd played the role of supportive boyfriend perfectly, made appropriate dinner conversation, and gunfire hadn't erupted once. Apparently, Iris had thought so too, because she'd pulled John into the bedroom as soon as her parents had left, shedding clothing and shoes along the way.

But that had been hours ago. John didn't do well on nights like this, when there was no number to save, no murder case to run down. No one to fight but himself. Before, he would have wandered the city, let his feet and his fists find some trouble, a bar fight, a mugging, some unfortunate soul in need.

Or he would drink.

"Couldn't sleep," John said, pulling out his best _aw shucks_ smile. "Thought I'd do something useful."

Iris leaned on the doorframe and watched him for a moment. Even thought they'd been dating for two months, John had never gotten used to that look. It was like he was being x-rayed, turned inside out and examined piece by piece. It had unsettled him the first time he'd met Iris in her office, and every time since then. He wasn't sure if he was more afraid of what she'd find, or that she'd find nothing at all.

Iris straightened up and came to stand next to him. She opened a drawer and pulled out a clean dishtowel.

"Iris, you don't have to—"

"I know," she said. "I want to. Goes twice as fast with two people, right?"

"Right," John said, his mouth pulling into a small, more genuine smile. He rinsed the pot he'd been scrubbing and handed it to Iris. They worked in silence, Iris drying everything John handed her.

After giving Iris the last dish, John felt around in the soapy water to make sure he hadn't missed anything. He paused with his hands still submerged. John knew why he couldn't sleep. He'd been thinking about it for weeks, but it had crystalized over dinner with Iris' parents, solidified into something that could fracture, could break.

John felt Iris' hand on his arm.

"I think you got it all," she said, looking up at him. She handed him the dishtowel to dry his hands. "Something's obviously bothering you, John. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I thought we agreed no head-shrinking at home?"

"John."

John looked at her. She was giving him that x-ray stare again. John sighed. He supposed there wasn't any point in drawing it out. He dried his hands on the dishtowel and turned to face her.

"I can't see you anymore, Iris."

To her credit, Iris didn't look surprised. Her face flattened out into the inscrutable plane from their therapy sessions.

"Why?"

"Because what I'm involved in is too dangerous."

"So you've told me," Iris said, crossing her arms. "What little you've told me, anyway. But it was dangerous before. What makes it different now?"

"It's worse now. Much worse. And I don't think it's going to get better any time soon… and I can't have you getting hurt because of me."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Iris asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

"I'm sorry, Iris."

Iris studied him. "That's not it."

John cut his eyes away.

"I can always tell when you're lying, remember? What's the real reason?"

John strangled the dishtowel in his hands. The real reason. John had seen it over dinner tonight, in the way Iris' father had clapped him on the back, in the way her mother had laughed at his corny jokes. He felt it in how Iris always took his hand when they were walking together, how he woke up in the morning with her snuggled against his chest, how she smiled at him with real love in her eyes.

They thought he was John Riley, dedicated detective, caring boyfriend. A good and decent man. 

But he was none of those things.

"I'm not who you think I am, Iris."

"John."

"There are things I've done, things you don't know about—"

"Your past is in the past, and it doesn't dictate your future," Iris said, gently tugging the dishtowel out of his hands. "You're a protector. You help people, you save people. I love that about you, John Riley—"

"I'm not John Riley. He doesn't exist."

Iris stared at him as if he'd shouted at her, thrown something. John felt guilt well up inside of him, bleeding into his lungs. But Iris deserved the truth. Or as close to the truth as he could tell her.

"You once said that I wasn't a cop," he said. "You're right.And John Riley isn't my name. He's an illusion, a cover. Everything about him is fabricated."

"And our relationship?" Iris asked. John could see her facade cracking. "Was that a fabrication, too?"

"No," John said firmly, reaching for her. "No, it wasn't. Everything I felt for you, Iris… all of it was real."

Iris pulled away and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Already speaking in the past tense," she said, huffing out a humorless laugh. "You've been thinking about this for a while, haven't you?"

"I'm so sorry, Iris. I never meant to hurt you."

"Bullshit!" Iris snapped, throwing the dishtowel on the table. John could see tears in her eyes. "If that was the case, why do any of this? Why kiss me in the first place?"

John came and knelt by her side.

"You… really looked at me," John said. "Tried to see me. No one's bothered to do that for a very long time."

"You said this is a cover, but a cover for what? Who do you work for?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Goddammit, John," Iris said in frustration, a tear slipping down her cheek. "You never let me in. I tried so hard, and you never let me in—"

"I know you did. But I don't think I'm built like that. I can't love you and keep you safe at the same time."

Iris suddenly looked incredibly sad. She took John's hand in hers. Her eyes were a clear green-blue, like looking into the sea  on a sunny day and seeing all the way to the bottom.

"If you're not John Riley, then who are you?"

"I don't know," John said quietly.

"What do you want? What makes you happy?"

"I don't know that, either."

"Don't you think you should figure that out?"

John gave her a lopsided smile. "Happiness has never been on the table for me, not really."

Iris shook her head, and brushed a hand against John's cheek.

"You're more than a protector. You're more than the people you save. There's more in here, even if you never let me see it." She touched over his heart.

John swallowed. His voice came out as barely a whisper. "If there is, it's nothing good." 

"I know it's good. I can see it, even if you can't. But you'll never be happy until you let someone in. If not me, then someone else."

John's guilt felt like being stabbed in the side.

"I'm sorry Iris. I really am." He kissed her palm.

"Yeah," she sniffed. "Me, too."

It only took a few minutes for John to get dressed and pack his belongings. When he got downstairs, he turned and looked up at the building. He found Iris' window, found her standing there between the curtains, watching him.

John Riley was a good man. He would have loved Iris, stayed with her. He would have married her, had children with her, grown old together with her.

But he wasn't John Riley.

Iris watched him for a moment more. Then she disappeared from view, retreating into her apartment.

John started walking and didn't look back.

____________________

John lay in bed and stared at the ceiling of Riley's apartment. He still couldn't sleep. Instead, he listened. He listened to the television in the next apartment, the laugh track fading in and out between the plaster. He listened to the city outside the open window, sirens wailing in the distance, a car door slamming, a dog barking somewhere up the block. He breathed in and held it, listening to his own heartbeat, steady and relentless.

He thought about the unopened fifth of rye whiskey he had in the kitchen.

John exhaled and leaned over to the nightstand. He twisted in his earbud and dialed Harold on his mesh network phone. He heard the line pick up, the sound of Harold's omnipresent typing in the background.

"You there, Finch?"

" _Always, Mr. Reese. How was your dinner with Ms. Campbell's parents?_ "

"Fine," John sighed, rolling over onto his back again. "But after that we broke up."

There was a pause. " _I'm sorry to hear that. I quite liked Iris._ "

"So did I."

" _What did you tell her?_ "

"The truth. Or at least as much of it as I could."

John heard Harold stop typing. " _Mr. Reese, are you sure that was a wise decision?_ "

"After doing nothing but lying to her for our entire relationship, the least I could do was tell her the truth, don't you think?" 

Another pause. John knew Harold was thinking about another relationship, and the lies he himself had told to build it. " _Yes. I suppose so._ " 

Neither of them said anything for a moment. John listened to Harold breathing on the other end of the line, the soft _tap tap tap_ as he resumed typing.

" _Was that all, Mr. Reese?_ "

"I can't sleep, Finch."

" _Ah. Shall I update you on our progress of the decompression program and virus?_ "

"Sure."

Harold launched into a jargon-filled explanation of what he and Root were currently working on. John let Harold's words wash over him. He'd missed this, the sound of Harold's voice in his ear. He'd spent so many nights this way before Samaritan, watching their latest number from afar while Harold rattled on in inane detail about some random subject. John didn't mind. He liked the sound of Harold's voice. It was soothing. Sometimes, John would leave the line open after missions, just listening to Harold puttering around the library, until John dropped off, or until Harold finally said _Goodnight, Mr. Reese._

Harold switched topics to some opera he wanted to see at Lincoln Center. His voice was like waves rolling onto the shore, in and out, in and out. Iris' words circled in time.

_Who are you?_

_What do you want?_

_What makes you happy?_

It had been so long since John had considered questions like that. If he ever had.

John was whatever he needed to be to complete the mission. He could be anything, as long as it was necessary, as long as he was of use. _Your country needs you_ and he'd become a soldier, let the army grind him down into the shape of a weapon under the Middle Eastern sun until there was nothing left but marking time, following orders, pulling the trigger on command. _Your country needs you_ and he'd become a CIA operative, let Kara cut the last bits of decency out of him with a razor, until he was only a beast in an empty suit, who could kill and lie as easily as he breathed, and none of it ever reached his eyes.

 _You need a purpose_ and Harold Finch had found him under the very same bridge John had contemplated jumping off of during all those late-night subway rides. Harold had offered him a job, and John didn't understand. Couldn't Harold see what he was? Didn't he know there was nothing left of John to need, to use?

But John had accepted, and he didn't understand that at first, either. Maybe it was because it sounded insane, some strange, secretive man on a mysterious crusade to save every person in New York, one at a time. Maybe it was the money, more than enough to buy himself a lethal amount of whiskey, and a ridiculous hotel room to drink it in. Maybe it was because the Queensboro Bridge would still be there tomorrow, and the day after that.

Now, John understood. It was because Harold had looked at him and seen something more. Because he'd said _I think you and I can help one another_ instead of _your country needs you_. To Harold, John was more than a soldier, or a broken-down drunk, or a killer.

He was someone worth saving.

And with every person John helped, with every _Mr. Reese_ and _I trust you_ and _Always_ , with every day that he woke up and didn't want to drink or think about that bridge, John had started to believe it, too.

" _I think you would like_ Les  Danaïdes _, there's quite a bit of pyrotechnics involved in the last act_."

"You are not dragging me to the opera again, Finch."

" _Fine. Your stubborn refusal to broaden your cultural horizons is noted._ "

John chuckled, and it turned into a yawn.

" _Dare I say I've talked you into a stupor?_ "

"Not at all," John said dryly. "Nothing excites me like 18 th century Italian opera."

John knew he should love Iris. She was smart, and kind, and beautiful. She was everything John could ever hope to want. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was she wasn't Harold Finch.

" _Goodnight, Mr. Reese._ "

"Goodnight, Finch."

____________________

The next round of Samaritan agents were in groups of five and six, just as John thought they'd be. With Daniel's help, John was able to take them all down, but one had gotten dangerously close to Harold's server. Harold momentarily stopped working to stare at the blood pool forming underneath the agent's fallen body. John grit his teeth and tamped down on the snarling urge to scoop Harold up and whisk him away from all this violence and blood, AI apocalypse be damned.

"How much longer, Finch?" John asked loudly.

Harold snapped himself out of his daze. "I'm not sure, Mr. Reese, no one's ever attempted something like this before. We're at 45 percent now."

"Ballpark it for me, then!" John said, shooting another Samaritan agent.

"Ten minutes?"

That was five more than John thought they could safely last. Samaritan had an unlimited supply of agents and ammo, but they didn't. John hit his earbud.

"Root? You out yet?"

" _Working on it,_ " Root replied. John could hear the sound of her submachine gun loud and clear over the comms. " _Samaritan got here a little quicker than we'd hoped._ "

Daniel laid down suppressive fire and funneled the next operatives directly into John's line of sight. He took them all out with three shots, head, head, heart.

"Are you guys okay?"

" _We're fine, it's just going to take us a little longer to make our exit._ "

"All right, but if you get into trouble—"

" _Focus on Harold and the Machine, John, they're the priority!_ "

"Root—"

Rapid gunfire came from John's right, from his blindspot. He managed to throw himself behind a server, but not before he got clipped in the right shoulder. He grunted as a familiar pain tore through him, but he was already up and moving again.

What the hell? There was no entrance on that side of the room, and none of the Samaritan agents had made it past him or Casey—

The gunfire came again, startlingly close this time. The shooter should be on the other side of the next server, if John's ears clocked them correctly. He maneuvered himself as quietly as possible to get the drop on them, and still keep himself between the shooter and Harold.

Wait. There was no door on that side, but there _was_ an air vent. John remembered it from the blueprints. But who would be small enough to make it through—

The answer hit John as he pivoted around the corner and came face to face with the shooter. They had already made him, and had their weapon pointed directly at him.

"Shaw?"

"Who the fuck is Shaw?" She asked roughly, and then shot him square in the chest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and constructive criticism welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally reached some smut! This is the first time I've published something explicit, so please let me know what you think.

" _Shaw?_ "

Root heard John's surprised rasp, and it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. Everything around her slowed to a crawl. The gunfire ricocheting off the metal machinery in front of her, the beeping of her laptop as the virus spread farther and farther, Jason shouting at her from the opposite wall as he ducked down with Daizo, all of it slowed down s l o w e d d o w n s l o w e d d o w n —

Jason waved at her frantically in slow motion. A Samaritan agent was rushing towards her. The agent raised his weapon.

Shaw. Shaw was alive. Shaw was alive, and Root knew where she was.

Everything snapped back into place at full volume.

Root had to get to her, _now._

She shot the oncoming Samaritan agent with a burst from her submachine gun, and took off down the hall. Behind her, she could hear Jason yelling in confusion, but she didn't stop. She took down another Samaritan operative, and then another, with ruthless efficiency. There was no time to waste, not now, not when Root had been waiting months _(four months, two weeks, five days, and counting)_ for this moment.

"Reese, is Shaw there?" Root demanded. She picked off another Samaritan agent, sending him toppling over a railing with a scream.

John didn't answer, but Root could hear him wheezing painfully over the line. He must have been hit. She felt a flare of concern, but pushed it down. She didn't have time for that now.

" _Mr. Reese, are you injured?_ " Root heard Harold ask in alarm.

"Harold! Where is Shaw?"

" _I don't know, I didn't see her—_ "

"I'm coming to you."

" _No, Ms. Groves, please stay where you are, it's too dangerous!_ "

Root ducked around a corner as more Samaritan agents fired on her. "I don't care, Harold, if Shaw's there, I'm there!"

" _Ms. Groves, please—_ "

Root hung up on Harold. She waited for a gap in the operatives' fire before she whipped her gun around the corner and pulled off several shots. Three agents went down hard, and Root didn't hesitate as she stepped over their bleeding bodies.

They had chosen an abandoned factory in Port Morris as the location to deploy the virus. It was an hour from the tech startup in Brooklyn on a good day. But Root didn't care. She had to get to Shaw.

" _Root,_ " John gasped.

"John, is she there? Tell me!"

There was a pause.

" _Root. Don't._ "

Root bared her teeth as she mowed down more Samaritan agents. John had told her all she needed to know. Shaw was there. Root could feel it.

_Hang on, Sameen. I'm coming._

______________________

Shaw grabbed Root by the throat and pushed her against the subway car with a bang, a mirror image of the way she'd choked Root only hours before.

"You tranqued me," Shaw growled.

"I did," Root said, wrapping both her hands around Shaw's forearm, but not trying to push her away. "You wouldn't listen, Sameen."

"Thought I'd hear better with a needle in my neck, huh?" Shaw was inches away from Root's face, her dark eyes icy with rage.

"I'd do it again, and more. I'd do anything to protect you."

"Stop," Shaw said, leaning more force against Root's neck and making her gasp, "saying that."

"It's true," Root strained in a thin voice. "I'd burn the world down, kill anyone, everyone, if it meant keeping you safe."

"I don't need you to protect me," Shaw snarled, stepping so close her knee was between Root's legs, her breath making Root's hair flutter against her cheek.

"Too bad, Sameen," Root croaked. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Shaw grit her teeth and squeezed. Root choked as her airway was cut off. She stared into Shaw's eyes, refusing to look away. Shaw needed to know Root would do anything for her. She would walk until her feet were bloody, take any number of bullets, let Shaw choke her until her eyes rolled back—

Shaw gave one more push and then let go, stepping away. Root coughed in between heaving breaths, massaging her throat until her fingers lined up with the bruises that were already starting to form there.

"You ever do that to me again," Shaw threatened, pushing her bangs out of her face and pacing, "and I will kick your ass into next week. Next _century_."

"Whatever you need, Sameen," Root said, her voice hoarse.

"I mean it, Root."

"So do I. Choke me, punch me, whatever you need to do. But you're still not leaving here."

Shaw stopped pacing. She turned to stare at Root.

"You can't keep me here."

"No. But you can't leave, either. Your cover is blown."

"So the Machine will make me a new one, get me back in the game."

"It's not that simple." Root pushed off the subway car. "At this point, Samaritan will see through any new covers the Machine creates for you."

"But you and Harold, you'll come up with something, right?"

Root shook her head. "I don't know. We'll try."

"Well, you'd better, because I am not living in this fucking subway the rest of my life," Shaw said. She continued to pace, restlessness rolling off of her in waves.

"You have to, Sameen, at least for the time being."

Shaw looked at her, and Root swore she saw a flicker of something behind her eyes.

"Root, I can't."

"You can," Root said, placing her hands on Shaw's shoulders.

"No, I can't. I don't do downtime. I need action, I need…" Shaw broke away, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I need to be out there."

"If you step one foot outside, Samaritan will see you, and it will kill you."

"I handled Martine just fine today, who says I can't do it again?"

"Because it's not just Martine! There are hundreds of them, thousands—" Root broke off, feeling tears burn her eyes.

"Root."

"Did you know it took me 12 minutes to get to the department store this morning?" Root asked, her voice cracking. "After the Machine told me your cover had been blown. 12 minutes of me thinking I wouldn't get there in time. 12 minutes of me thinking you were already dead."

"I'm not dead, Root," Shaw said, letting her arms drop to her sides. "I'm right here."

"Are you?" A tear ran down Root's cheek. "Because every time I close my eyes, I'm worried you won't be there when I open them again."

Shaw sighed. "Please don't cry."

"I was so scared, Shaw. I thought I was going to lose you."

Saying the words out loud released all the emotions Root had been suppressing since that morning, and a sob bubbled out of her. The desperation, the anger, the fear, fear, fear, like an atomic bomb blast, like a car driving into a wall at 100 miles per hour, burning her out until there was nothing left. Another sob burst out of her, and then another, until Root was crying so hard she couldn't stop.

"Jesus, Root," Shaw said. She pushed Root's hair out of her face, awkwardly rubbed her arm. Trying so hard to comfort Root when Shaw would never understand the mess of emotions threatening to swallow her up. It only made Root cry harder.

"What can I do?" Shaw asked. She wiped tears off Root's cheek with her thumb. "What do you need?"

"You," Root said with a shuddering breath, and then she was falling into Shaw's arms and kissing her. She pressed her lips desperately against Shaw's, gripping her for dear life. Shaw opened her mouth and let Root in, teeth, tongue, tears and all.

"Where are the boys?" Shaw asked in between breathless kisses.

"Out."

"Good."

This, Shaw knew how to do. She walked Root backwards until they were at the cot Shaw had been passed out on. She shoved Root and she fell back with a gasp on the thin mattress. She only had a second to miss the contact before Shaw was on her again, weighing her down in all the right places.

Root moaned into Shaw's mouth. Too many clothes, they were both wearing too many clothes. She ineffectually tugged at Shaw's coat until Shaw batted her hands away. Shaw zipped the belt out of her coat and pushed Root's arms up over her head. She looped the belt around Root's wrists and then tied them to the metal bed frame. When Shaw pulled the fabric taut, Root moaned even louder and arched up, her eyelids fluttering.

"Stay," Shaw said in her ear. She then shoved Root's leather jacket off her shoulders and up her arms, further immobilizing her, before shrugging off her own coat and dropping it on the floor.

Root opened her mouth with a comeback, but it turned into another breathless moan when Shaw pushed her shirt and bra up to her neck and grabbed her breasts, one in each hand. Shaw wasn't gentle, massaging them firmly, catching Root's nipples between her fingers and twisting. Root cried out, arousal flashing through her like an electric current. Shaw did it again, and again, and when Root nearly came off the mattress, Shaw sucked one of her nipples into her mouth and bit down.

"Sameen!" Root cried, arching off the cot. She was so distracted she didn't notice Shaw had unbuttoned her pants and shoved them, along with her underwear, down her thighs. But she definitely noticed when Shaw made her way down Root's body to drag her tongue against Root's center.

Root gasped and thew her head back. Shaw traced Root's opening with the tip of her tongue, dipping inside her shallowly, working her way up and then back down. Root moaned and bucked her hips until Shaw very firmly pressed her back down with one hand while nipping the inside of Root's thigh with her teeth.

"Please," Root gasped.

"You can beg better than that," Shaw said, Root feeling the warm puff of her breath against her skin. Shaw licked a path down Root's thigh and up the other side, ghosting around her folds, but never where Root needed to be touched the most.

"Sameen, please, please, please," Root chanted, watching Shaw through her lashes. "Please. Please."

Shaw rewarded her by drawing her tongue slowly over Root's clit. Root moaned and shuddered as Shaw worked her slowly at first. Then she set a steady rhythm of licking and sucking, laving her tongue wetly against Root in alternating broad and pointed strokes. 

"Sameen, oh my God," Root panted, thrashing her head back and forth. She could feel her pleasure building, spiraling higher and higher. "Oh, I'm close, I'm—"

Then Shaw fastened her lips completely around Root's clit and sucked hard.

Root came with a gasp, arching off the mattress as her orgasm crashed through her. Shaw continued licking her through it, making Root quake and tremble, moans spilling past her lips. Just as Root was shaking through the last throes, Shaw slid two fingers into her, curling them inside her, and pressed down on Root's clit with her thumb.

" _Sameen!_ " Root cried, her whole body going taut, straining against the belt and the legs of her pants that were keeping her pinned. Shaw didn't give her a chance to breathe before she started stroking her fingers in and out.

"Yeah, take it," Shaw said, throwing her leg over Root's and grinding herself against it. "I'm going to make you come until you can't see straight." Shaw's strokes gradually turned into steady but relentless thrusts, Root crying out with every push of her fingers, every rub against her clit. The pleasure built and built, until Root thought she would explode, and then Shaw upped the pace.

"Sameen, ah! Please!" Root moaned, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "Oh, _God—_ "

"You're talking way too much," Shaw panted, dragging her inseam against Root's thigh. Shaw withdrew her hand and Root moaned helplessly, but it ratcheted up into a breathless keen when Shaw pushed back in with three fingers. It filled Root just to the point of being painful, and Shaw immediately began thrusting again, not giving her any time to adjust.

Pain chased pleasure higher and higher until Root's brain completely went offline. She cried out wordlessly, bucking against her restraints. Shaw thrust her fingers in and out, curling them and twisting them in ways that made Root writhe and thrash in turn, all the while working her clit in small, quick circles with her thumb. She continued to ride Root's thigh faster and harder, chasing her own orgasm.

It was too much, it was so good, God, it was too much—

Just when Root thought she could take no more, just when she was teetering on the edge, Shaw wrapped her free hand around Root's throat, and squeezed.

Root's orgasm arced through her like lightning, blowing every circuit in her brain. Her back bowed off the cot and she came with a shout, gushing and convulsing around Shaw's hand. Tears poured down her temples as she shook, over and over and over. Above her, Shaw's rhythm faltered against Root's thigh and she shuddered, ducking her head and groaning as she finally came.

Root collapsed bonelessly on the mattress, completely drained. Shaw lay down next to her, half on top of her still since the cot was so narrow. She kissed Root while she came down, licked away her tears.

"Sameen," Root mumbled as soon as she was able.

"I'm here," Shaw said, running her fingers through Root's long hair. "I'm here."

"Promise me you'll stay. Until we can get something figured out."

"Root."

"Promise me."

"Okay," Shaw said, kissing Root's ear, her cheek, her throat. "Okay, I promise."

Root sighed and rolled until she was facing Shaw. Shaw kissed her like they had all the time in the world, like she hadn't almost died earlier that day, like they weren't fighting a war that couldn't be won. Root soaked up every second of it, trying in vain to memorize it, like if she could only recreate this moment perfectly in her mind, it would keep Shaw here with her, safe, forever.

______________________

Root growled in frustration as she chewed through another group of Samaritan agents. This was taking way too much time. She needed to get to the tech startup, needed to get to Shaw. It was all she could think about, _Shaw, Shaw, Shaw_ beating through her body to the rhythm of her pulse.

The submachine gun clicked uselessly in her hand. Out of ammo. Root dropped it and pulled two handguns from the small of her back, and crouched behind a pile of old wooden crates.

"Root!"

Root looked over her shoulder and saw Jason and Daizo hurrying down the hall towards her.

"What the shit is going on?" Jason panted, kneeling next to her. "Why did you just take off? Did something happen?"

"Shaw's alive."

"What?" Jason asked incredulously. Beside him, Daizo cursed in surprised Japanese.

"She's at the startup with Harold and John. I'm going there."

"Root, you can't," Jason said. "It's halfway across the city, you'll never make it there in time!"

"It doesn't matter, I'm going anyway," Root said, picking off two more Samaritan operatives. "You can't stop me."

"Let us help you," Jason said, laying a hand on her arm. "You're going to get yourself killed."

Root shrugged him off. "If you walk 30 feet that way, it will lead to the loading dock. You can make your way out from there."

"Root, we're not going to leave you—"

But Root was already moving again, standing up and firing as she strode down the hall. When her handguns were empty, she lifted a weapon off a fallen Samaritan agent. She pulled up the blueprint for the factory in her mind. If she continued down this hall, she was just going to run into more Samaritan lackeys. But if she cut right at the next corner, she could make it to the service entrance—

"Root, watch out!"

Root turned just in time to see a Samaritan agent repelling through a window with a crash of glass, rifle aimed right at her. Root ducked and raised her weapon, but Jason was faster. He moved in front of her and fired.

The Samaritan agent fell, but not before shooting Jason in the chest.

"Jason!" Root shouted. She froze, torn. Should she help Jason, or continue on to find Shaw? But then she was running, falling to her knees beside him, the answer not up for debate.

Daizo was beside her a second later. The bullet had managed to punch through his bulletproof vest. Root pressed her hands against the wound. He was bleeding so much, so fast, warm and slick as it welled between her fingers. Jason made a pained gurgling sound as she pushed down harder.

"Stupid, taking a bullet for me," Root muttered. "Why would you do that?"

"Sorry," Jason coughed. He managed a small smile, but then his expression rippled in pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Daizo shot the next Samaritan agent that rounded the corner. He spit rapid-fire Japanese at Root.

"You're right, we need to get him out of here," Root replied. "Jason, can you stand?"

"Dunno," Jason gasped. "I can try."

"Daizo, get his other side."

Daizo nodded sharply, and helped Root haul Jason upright. Jason cried out, gritting his teeth. He got his feet underneath him, but his knees were wobbling so badly he immediately pitched forward.

Root and Daizo balanced Jason between them and hobbled towards the loading dock. Root shot oncoming Samaritan agents with her free hand, and Daizo did the same, like some kind of twisted three-legged race. Jason did his best to stay upright, but he was so pale, his face gray like paper.

Root shoved them through the door to the loading dock. They limped around the backside of the factory, Jason's feet slipping on the gravel. They were mostly dragging him now, his head lolling on his shoulders and his eyes fluttering.

"Stay with us, Jason!" Root urged. As they came to the back lot, she could see several SUVs parked in a row. Souvenirs leftover from all the dead Samaritan agents inside. They could use one to escape if—

Another pack of Samaritan operatives started shooting at them from the opposite corner of the building. Root backed them up against the factory wall for cover.

"Do you think you can make it to one of those SUVs while I cover you?" Root asked Daizo. Daizo hitched Jason farther over his shoulder to take his full weight. He nodded.

"Okay. On the count of three," Root said. "One, two, go!"

Daizo stumbled off with Jason, and Root opened fire, striding across the lot. She hit the first two Samaritan agents that emerged, and the rest were driven back the way they'd come.

Root rushed to the SUV just as Daizo was lifting Jason onto the backseat. Jason wheezed, but otherwise didn't fight as Daizo shoved him across the seat. He looked like a ghost, his face completely white. He didn't look like he had much longer, but they still had to try—

"Jason, stay awake!" Root threw herself into the driver's seat, casting around frantically for the keys. She found them in the center console. Root jammed the key into the ignition and cranked the vehicle to life. She punched the accelerator and took off, skidding the SUV through the lot and back towards the road, bullets pinging off the back bumper.

Root's phone was ringing in her pocket. She dug it out. Harold. She dropped the phone on the passenger seat. She needed to focus on driving. There was a hospital a few miles east—

Root heard Daizo exclaim from the backseat and looked in the rearview mirror. Daizo had Jason propped up on his lap, and was shaking him. Jason wasn't responding.

Jason wasn't moving at all.

Daizo made eye contact with Root in the mirror and his face crumpled. He shook his head.

Root clenched her hands, leaving bloody smears all over the steering wheel as tears clouded her vision. Behind her, she could hear Daizo sobbing quietly.

Her phone on the passenger seat kept ringing. Root wiped her eyes and kept driving.

____________________

Root scrubbed the blood off her hands in the makeshift bathroom Harold had installed in the subway. The water was numbingly cold, going from red to pink as Root worked her way from her wrists to her fingertips. She methodically ran her thumbnail underneath her other nails and along her cuticles, picking away the dried red that was caked there. She kept going until the water ran clear, until her skin was almost raw.

None of the blood was hers.

It was her fault Jason was dead. She should have been more careful. If she hadn't been so focused on Shaw, she wouldn't have missed that Samaritan agent, and Jason would still be alive. It was all her fault, all her fault, allherfault _allherfault  
__ALLHERFAULT—_

"Ms. Groves."

Root's hands clenched around nothing and then fell still under the water. She could see Harold standing in the bathroom doorway in the cracked mirror above the sink.

"I've contacted Mr. Greenfield's brother, Timothy Sloan," Harold said. "We've made arrangements for Mr. Casey and Mr. Tatsuro to deliver the body to him. I asked him to keep us appraised of any funeral arrangements, but that of course is at his discretion."

Root nodded. "I should go with them."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Groves, but they left ten minutes ago."

Root gripped the edges of the sink. Daniel and Daizo must blame her, too. They wouldn't even speak to her after they all returned to the subway, doing little else but mirroring the dead expression that had stiffened Jason's face. _Allherfault  
allherfaultallherfault. _She had to swallow the burning lump in her throat before she could speak again. "Of course. Have you heard anything from the Machine?"

"I believe the Machine decompressed successfully. But it hasn't made contact yet."

"I'm sure She'll come back when She's ready." Root cranked the water off and busied herself with drying her hands. In truth, Root was desperate to hear from the Machine. There had been a loose, unmoored feeling in her chest ever since She'd gone offline, and Root needed to know all this—Jason's death, losing Shaw all over again—had been worth it. "And when She does, we'll jumpstart the war against Samaritan, and we'll get Shaw back."

"About that." In the mirror, Root could see Harold was wearing that pinched, concerned expression that meant he had something to say to Root, but was unsure of how to do so without pissing her off. "There's something else we need to discuss."

Root turned from the sink to face him. "Spit it out, Harry."

Harold took a deep breath and spoke carefully. "While I care deeply for Ms. Shaw and wish dearly for her return, her presence tonight indicates she is almost certainly working for Samaritan now."

"Shaw would never do that," Root snapped, anger flashing to life inside her. "She would never betray us like that!"

"I know it's difficult to think about, but if she didn't recognize Mr. Reese, it's possible Ms. Shaw's mind is no longer entirely her own."

Root thought about the neural implants her and John had seen at the factory in Maple. What if Samaritan had put one in Shaw? What if it had brainwashed her somehow? Root thought about the bloody surgical tools they'd found in the truck, watching Shaw fall at the stock exchange over and over again while Root was trapped behind the elevator gate, Martine advancing while Shaw's blood poured out onto the floor as Root screamed and screamed—

Root clenched her teeth and pushed past Harold into the main part of the subway. John was sitting on a stool, carefully pulling his shirt on over his freshly bandaged shoulder. Root could see the deep-colored bruise already blooming up his chest where his vest had caught Shaw's bullet. It was so stupid. John and Jason had suffered the same injury, but only one of them was still alive. Why was only one of them still alive?

"Tell me again," Root demanded.

John looked up at her. Root could see sympathy in his expression, and hated him for it.

"I saw her, and she saw me," he said quietly. "She shot me. And then she was gone."

"But she didn't recognize you?"

"No," John said, shaking his head. "She didn't seem to know me at all. She didn't seem to know her own name, either. I called her Shaw and it was like she didn't know who I was talking about."

Root curled her hands into fists and stared at the floor. Shaw being gone these past months _(four months, two weeks, six days, and counting)_ had been a hole in Root's life, a hole in everything. When she had something to focus on, the Machine's missions, or helping with the numbers, the hole was smaller, almost bearable. But it was always there, hovering in the background, ready to swallow Root whole when she least expected it.

But now? Finally getting a solid lead on Shaw, only to miss her chance? And learning that Shaw might not remember her at all?

Now the hole was a gaping maw, supermassive and so black it threatened to squeeze all the light from the world.

"She'll recognize me," Root finally said. She had to believe it. She had to. "Even if she's working for Samaritan, we can still save her. We can't just give up on her."

"We won't," Harold said. He limped close and hovered a hand by Root's shoulder. "But we may need to be ready for the possibility that Ms. Shaw may not want to be rescued."

Root refused to accept that. Root would find Shaw. Shaw would recognize her, and it would break whatever hold Samaritan had over her. Shaw would come back to her. And then Root would make Samaritan pay for hurting her beautiful girl. She would rip it to pieces with her bare hands, kill anyone associated with it, burn everything to the ground—

Suddenly the lights in the subway started flickering. Root whipped around, and John stood, gun in hand, but none of Harold's alarms had gone off to indicate the subway had been breached. Then the screens of the computer terminal Harold had built into the subway car started flickering too, and Root could hear bursts of squealing static through her cochlear implant, like a radio knob being spun across the dial. Root clapped a hand against it and gasped, her heart leaping in her chest. She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob.

"She's here."

"The Machine," Harold gasped. He hurried into the subway car, John and Root crowding in behind him.

"Can you see me?" Harold asked, standing before the terminal.

Letters spun on the screen until one word appeared. 

YES

"Who am I?"

ACCESSING EXTERNAL ARCHIVE

LOADING TRAINING MODULES

Each computer screen split into several different videos that began playing simultaneously. The grainy images were overlapping and almost too fast to follow, but Root immediately recognized the subject.

All the videos were of Harold, each a montage of him saying the same words over and over.

" _Can you see me?_ "

" _Who am I?_ "

" _Can you see me?_ "

" _Who am I?_ "

Root gasped. "Is this…?"

"From when I was first building the Machine, yes," Harold said. His face was slack with surprise.

The videos continued to play, other audio snippets bleeding through.

" _—Alice and Bob are stranded in the desert—_ "

"— _there is one good person and one bad—_ "

" _—anyone who looks on life as if it were a game of chess deserves to lose—_ "

" _—Let's begin—_ "

"This would have all been deleted when the Machine was compressed down to it's core code," Harold said in wonder. "It must have saved it all somewhere beforehand. How clever."

"Your lessons are important to Her," Root said. "She wanted to make sure they were all still there when She woke up."

The videos continued playing faster and faster, becoming completely unintelligible as the Machine absorbed years and years of Harold's teachings.

Harold and John were watching with their mouths slightly agape. A tear ran down Root's cheek. It was like seeing the face of God. It was like watching the world being born.

Finally, the videos stopped.

REVIEW OF TRAINING MODULES COMPLETE

The screen settled back to black, and a single cursor appeared. The Machine was waiting.

"Who am I?" Harold asked again, a tremor in his voice that hadn't been there before.

Letters began spinning on the screen. This time, the Machine had an answer.

FATHER

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Jason. Sorry you got the fridge. 
> 
> The scene between Root and Shaw doesn't exactly jive with the beginning of episode 4.10, but you know they banged like a screen door in a hurricane at some point between 4.09 and 4.10. Or, I suppose you could argue Shaw tried to escape once the afterglow wore off, so Root had to cuff her to the bench. :) 
> 
> As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	4. Chapter 4

Fusco stared at the stacks of papers bundled together outside the newsstand. It was today's copy of the _New York Journal_. On the front page, above the fold, a photo of Fusco himself stared back. The headline read _HERO COP RECEIVES AWARD._

Fusco hadn't read the story, but he knew what it would say. The NYPD Commissioner had awarded him a medal of commendation for his actions in taking down Carl Elias and Dominic Besson, two of the city's most notorious crime lords. Sacred oath, honored to serve, a grateful city, blah blah blah.

But Fusco wasn't honored. Because it was a lie. He hadn't done anything to deserve that medal except keep his mouth shut.

Fusco wished Carter was still alive. He wished that a lot, but today more than ever. He was sure Carter would have an opinion on all this, on his silence. On what he was about to do. After she got done laughing her ass off, of course. Lionel Fusco on the cover of the _New York Journal_. Who would've thought.

"Hey, buddy, you gonna buy something or not?"

Fusco looked up at the craggy-faced man behind the counter.

"Nah, sorry."

The man made an irritated noise, and waved at him dismissively before turning to another customer. Fusco gave the newspapers one last look, the repeating edge of each paper offering the same slice of his face dozens of times. A whole stack of Fuscos that stared in judgement, and found him wanting.

Fusco turned and continued walking up the street, shaking his head. He didn't come this far just to chicken out. He walked until he came to a door marked _ROOF ACCESS._ After a surreptitious look around, he opened the door and let himself in, and began the long climb upward. 

____________________

Fusco strode through the Eighth with as much dignity as his exhausted body could muster. As he crossed the bullpen, heads swiveled and whispers followed him. Fusco didn't pay them any mind. People had said much worse things to his face.

He was almost to the captain's office when a slight man intercepted him.

"A word, if I may, Mr. Fusco?"

"It's detective," Fusco groused. "And no, I need to talk to Captain Moreno—"

"Ms. Moreno is not in her office, I'm afraid."

Fusco narrowed his eyes and sidestepped around the man. He could see through the glass windows that indeed no one was behind the desk.

"Know where she went?"

"No, detective, I do not," the man replied, smiling politely. "But that does give us a few minutes to sit down and talk, if you wouldn't mind."

Fusco eyed the small man. He was mousy-looking, with severely parted hair and rimless glasses. His suit and tie were a wash of grays. He was the very definition of unassuming. But Fusco knew better than to judge a book by it's nerdy cover. After all, Glasses was as unassuming as they came, and he could probably launch nuclear weapons with a cellphone.

"Who are you supposed to be?" Fusco asked gruffly.

"Special Agent Randall Kett, FBI."

The man held out his hand. Fusco shook it with a little more force than necessary, but Kett's face didn't betray any discomfort. His hands was cool and dry.

"Please, detective," Agent Kett said, gesturing to one of the interview rooms.

"Yeah, sure, why not."

"Excellent, thank you," Kett said, smiling again. He sure was polite, certainly the most polite FBI agent Fusco had ever met.

Fusco followed the agent into the interview room. Kett shut the door behind them.

"Please, take a seat."

"Think I'll stand," Fusco said, crossing his arms. No way he was letting some twerpy Fed think he had the upper hand.

"Suit yourself, detective," Kett said, still smiling. It was starting to get creepy now.

Kett sat down and placed his briefcase on the steel table. He clicked open the locks and removed a thick file folder, which he then placed on the table in front of him.

"I have here the report from last night's incident."

"Really," Fusco said flatly. "That's gotta be some kind of record, seeing as it happened less than 12 hours ago."

"The Bureau thought it best to expedite the process, for all involved. Now, what can you tell me about last night?"

"You already have the report right there. What do you need me for?"

"I'd like to hear it in your own words, detective. If you wouldn't mind."

Fusco sighed. He began pacing the room slowly.

"A SWAT unit, myself, and my partner, Detective Riley, arrested Carl Elias and Dominic Besson, plus several members of the Brotherhood, at around 2200 hours. Elias and Dominic were loaded into a transport van, and I rode along. A few minutes into the ride the vehicle was T-boned at an intersection, causing it to flip over."

Fusco stopped directly behind Agent Kett. Most people were uncomfortable with someone at their back, someone they couldn't see. Fusco had used it as an intimidation tactic in countless interrogations. But Kett didn't look uncomfortable at all. The man was completely unfazed. Interesting.

"I hit my head in the crash and was dazed for a minute or two," Fusco continued, resuming his pacing. "When I came to, Dominic had a gun on Elias and was threatening to shoot him. I drew my weapon and ordered Dominic to drop the gun. He did, and then I heard two shots, from the northeast. One hit Dominic in the head, killing him instantly. The other hit Elias in the chest. He died at the scene a few minutes later. I had unis check all the rooftops in that direction, but they could't find anything on the shooter."

"Mr. Elias' body was recovered at the scene," Kett said. "But Mr. Besson's wasn't?"

"Some of the Brotherhood gang showed up shortly after he was killed. They took Dominic's body while I was checking on Elias."

"Thank you, detective."

"I didn't see you take any notes. Memorize all that, did you?"

"As you mentioned earlier, I have the report right here," Kett said, smiling again. He placed his fingertips on the closed folder. "And while your bravery is commended by the Bureau, I'm afraid the report differs from your recollection of events."

"That right? Let me see that report."

"Certainly, detective."

Kett slid the folder across the table. Fusco sat down and began flipping through it. He stopped when he got to the ballistics report. What the fuck?

"Wait, you think _I_ shot Dominic and Elias?" Fusco asked incredulously. "They were both taken out by a high-powered sniper rifle! How could my service weapon match their wounds?"

"Their wounds match your service weapon because you shot them with your service weapon, Detective Fusco. It's all right there in the report."

"Yeah, well, your report is wrong," Fusco spat. "I know what I heard, I know what I saw! Someone took out Dominic and Elias with a sniper rifle from over three hundred yards away, in the dark. Probably a pro. Now I don't know why you're trying to cover this up—"

"Detective, are you alleging that Mr. Elias and Mr. Besson were murdered through some sort of conspiracy plot, and the FBI is colluding with the NYPD to hide that fact?"

"All I know is _that_ ," Fusco said, jabbing his finger at the report, "is not what happened. I was there. I know what I saw!"

"What you think you saw."

"Excuse me?"

"According to your version of events, you suffered a head injury during the crash, isn't that right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"And according to the report, you told emergency medical personnel on scene that you were feeling dizzy, disorientated."

"What?" Fusco asked, rubbing the knot where his forehead had hit the van's window. "No, I never said that."

"It's there, in the report."

Fusco furiously flipped through the pages until he found an interview with one of the EMTs. Direct quotes about Fusco saying he felt woozy, and that he seemed confused.

"What the fuck is this?" Fusco demanded. "I never said those things. Who are you, what's going on here?"

"I already explained who I was, detective," Agent Kett said, folding his hands in front of him calmly. "And because of your head injury, I don't believe you remember last night's events correctly. That, on top of limited sleep in the past 24 hours, and being tortured by Dominic and his men, it's no wonder you're confused. It's all right, it happens to the best of us."

Anger flashed in Fusco's gut, and he stood up abruptly. "Listen here, you—"

"The Bureau thanks you for your bravery and service," Kett continued over Fusco, "and are even recommending you for a commendation."

"A commendation?"

"Yes, of course," Kett said, smiling once more. "You certainly deserve it. You stopped two very dangerous criminals from escaping custody. Everyone is very proud of you, the Bureau, the NYPD. I'm sure your family is as well. You have a son, right? What's his name… Lee, isn't it?"

Fusco got into Kett's personal space and glared down at him.

"Is that some kind of threat, bringing up my kid?"

"Of course not, detective," Kett said, standing. He looked Fusco in the eye, still completely unruffled. "Don't be absurd. It was merely a statement of fact."

"If you think this is going to make me stop investigating this case—"

"I think your next actions are up to you," Agent Kett said, gathering up the report and putting it back in his briefcase. "But tread carefully, detective. The speedy conclusion of this case in your favor has due in no small part to the Bureau's intervention. Any attempts to negate this report could undo all that good will. It could undo a lot of things. You spouting conspiracy theories, acting erratically, combined with your past association with criminal organizations such as HR? Things could get very bad for you very quickly. For both you, and your partner."

The smile on Kett's face evaporated and Fusco felt a chill run up his spine. He'd seen his fair share of monsters over the years, but this was something else. Kett was wearing the deadest expression Fusco had ever seen on a living person's face. His pale eyes were flat and empty in a way that made Fusco's hindbrain light up in warning. He suddenly knew this was a man who would kill him, and anyone else, without the slightest hesitation.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Detective Fusco?"

"Yeah," Fusco said, swallowing. "I got it."

"Glad to hear it," Kett said, tilting his head in a way that truly unsettled Fusco. "By the way, where is your partner? Detective Riley? I'd like to speak with him as well."

"He's, uh, following up a lead on another case."

In truth, John had disappeared last night right after Dominic and Elias had been arrested, and Fusco hadn't been able to get a hold of him since.

"Really? After having such an adventurous night? My, he's even more industrious than you are."

"Yeah, fun never stops when he's around."

"Well, that's all I had, detective," Agent Kett said, smile suddenly back in place. He looked over Fusco's shoulder to the upper corner of the interview room. "Again, congratulations on your commendation. The Bureau and the NYPD thank you for your exemplary service."

With that, Kett was gone. Fusco let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, blinking at the whiplash between Kett's smiling mask and his dead eyes underneath. He turned to look where Kett had been staring. It was the corner of the room where the security camera was mounted. As Fusco looked at it, the red light suddenly came back on.

Had Kett turned off the recording device? If he didn't want their conversation recorded, then why have it in an interview room at all? What the fuck was going on?

Fusco hurried out of the room, but by the time he got back to the bullpen, Kett was nowhere to be found. Shit. Talking to that man had made Fusco's skin crawl. There was definitely something not right about him.

Fusco pulled out his mesh network phone. No missed calls, no texts. He angrily dialed Wonderboy's number. Of course it went straight to voicemail.

"Where the fuck are you?" Fusco said lowly into the phone. "Something real hinky's going on here, you're MIA, and I'm being grilled by the FB-fucking-I. So, call me, or whenever you feel like gracing us with your presence, I would really fucking appreciate it."

He called Glasses too, and growled when he got voicemail again. He hung up without leaving a message.

What the fuck was going on?

"Hey Fusco, did you hear?" Harrison, a fellow detective asked, interrupting his thoughts. Fusco did his best not to jump, but didn't know if he succeeded.

"What?"

"About Captain Moreno. Hell of a thing. Apparently, she and her wife were killed last night in a car accident. Fucking tragic, right?"

"Yeah, real tragic," Fusco said in a stunned voice. Harrison made a sympathetic expression and clapped him on the shoulder before walking off.

Fusco looked back at Captain Moreno's empty office. First the sniper, then Agent Kett, and now this? Fusco thought about how Kett had feigned ignorance about Moreno's whereabouts, but somehow had a full report on something that happened last night. He thought about watching Dominic's head get blown off, watching the perfect hole appear in Elias' chest. He thought about the red light on the security camera in the interview room.

Just what the _fucking hell_ was going on?

____________________

Fusco headed John off as soon as he entered the Eighth, and all but shoved him into the men's room.

"Had a lot of fiber today, Lionel?" John quipped as Fusco did a quick search of the bathroom to make sure they were alone.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Fusco hissed. "I've been calling you for hours—"

"Had a bit of a rough night."

"Oh yeah? Me, too," Fusco snapped back. "Between getting shot at by a sniper, Dominic and Elias being murdered, and the FBI interrogating me, it's been a real fucking cake walk!"

"What?" John asked, instantly serious.

"Yeah, Dominic and Elias were taken out right in front of me. They're both dead."

Fusco saw a flicker of emotion on John's face before it was replaced with his dead-eyed expression, the one he'd been wearing when they'd first met. The one that looked like John could kill Fusco quickly a hundred different ways, and then forget him even quicker. It reminded him forcibly of Agent Kett, and Fusco had to suppress a shudder.

"What happened?"

"The transport van got hit with a John Reese special," Fusco explained. "Elias' guys, there to help the boss escape. Dominic got the drop on them, but I stopped it. And then a sniper took them both out."

"And the FBI is involved?"

"Yeah, the guy who talked to me was like a motherfucking pod person. He already had a report on the whole incident, even thought it just happened last night! A report that says _I_ was the one who shot Dominic and Elias. And this Agent Kett, he says I'd better not say otherwise, in my best interest, blah blah blah, but I know a threat when I hear one—"

Fusco was interrupted by John digging Fusco's cellphone out of his jacket pocket. He took Fusco's phone, along with his own, and dumped them in one of the toilets.

"Hey, I just bought that!"

"Listen to me, Lionel," John said quietly. "You can't go against this FBI report. Just do what they say."

"What?" Fusco balked. "I can't do that! Dominic and Elias were murdered, I'm not just going to let that fly!"

"You have to. Please, trust me."

"What the fuck is going on?"

"I can't tell you, Lionel—"

"Bullshit! If you know what's going on—"

"Keep your voice down," John said lowly. "I can't tell you because it would put your life in danger, but trust me on this. Keep your head down, agree with whatever they say, and don't talk about this sniper."

Fusco stared at John. "You want me to just roll over."

"Yes, Lionel, for now."

"I can't do that, _partner_ ," Fusco said, his lip curling. "Because unlike you, I'm real police. I'm not going to back down just because some FBI suit threatens me. That's not what a real cop would do. That's not what Carter would've done."

John's eyes flashed at Carter's name, and his emotionless mask slipped. He grabbed Fusco by the shoulders, and Fusco could feel the strength coiled in that grip, the promise of violence on a hair trigger.

"This is bigger than that, Fusco," John said slowly. "You wonder why this sniper didn't shoot you, too? What's to stop him from coming back and finishing the job? Or from taking someone else out, like your kid?"

Fear slid into Fusco's gut like ice.

"This is not about being dirty, or honorable, or right. This is about staying alive. I want you to stay alive, Lionel. So when I tell you to keep your mouth shut, trust me. Do it."

John let go of Fusco and turned to walk out of the bathroom.

"John, wait," Fusco said.

John stopped, but didn't turn around.

"Look, I'm not an idiot," Fusco said. "If you say something's too big, fine, I get it. Something big enough to take out Dominic and Elias, big enough to have the FBI clean up their mess. Maybe even big enough to have Captain Moreno killed."

"Moreno is dead?"

"Yeah. Car crash. Or so they said. But it's a hell of a coincidence, huh?"

John was silent, but Fusco saw his hands clench into fists.

"But if this thing is so big," Fusco went on, "then you're going to need my help. You have to tell me what's going on, John. I can help."

John said nothing for a long moment.

"Not this time, Fusco," he finally said. "Do what I said. Keep your head down, don't talk about this sniper. Don't do anything stupid."

The snappy retort Fusco would normally have thrown back died in his throat. John exited the bathroom, leaving him standing there alone.

Fusco balled his hands into fists, his mind swirling. He couldn't just let this go. Dominic and Elias weren't good men by any standard, but that didn't mean their murders shouldn't be investigated, or their killer not brought to justice. It was his duty as a police officer, as a homicide detective.

But John was clearly rattled to warn him away so adamantly. That alone should frighten Fusco into keeping his distance. Whatever was going on, it was obviously way above his pay grade, and certainly not worth losing his life over. Or, God forbid, Lee's.

Every instinct Fusco had was telling him to look the other way on this. But after everything—finally getting out from under HR, learning how to help people again with Harold and John, Carter—Fusco just wasn't that guy anymore. If he let this go, what was there separating him from the scumbag he was four years ago? What kind of cop would he be then? What kind of man? 

Fusco fished his cellphone out of the toilet. He tried the power button in vain, but no matter how hard he pressed, the screen remained stubbornly dark. He angrily dumped it, along with John's, into the trash.

If this were any other murder investigation, what would Fusco do first? He would go to the scene, gather evidence. Build a case. He would start with what he knew.

He would start with the sniper.

____________________

Fusco was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the roof. He wiped his brow as he walked to the farthest edge. The building was eight stories tall and provided a good view of the surrounding area. It would make an ideal vantage point to watch the whole block.

Or to set up a sniper rifle.

Fusco looked to the southwest and could see the intersection where the transport van had been hit, where Dominic and Elias had been gunned down. Fusco crouched and held an invisible rifle in his hands, closing one eye to look down the non-existent scope. He trained the rifle on the intersection, imaging the two crime lords still alive, in a standoff with each other, no idea they were already in the crosshairs. Fusco mimed pulling the trigger once, and then again. Simple, for a shooter with the right skills.

He stood and turned, looked closely at the surface of the roof. Like any good pro, the killer wouldn't have left a trace. But sometimes, even pros made mistakes. Fusco only needed to find one. He combed the roof carefully, looking for anything that could prove the sniper's existence.

Something shiny flashed in the corner of his eye. He got down on his knees and flipped open his pocket knife, wedging the edge underneath an air intake grate. He leveraged it up and found exactly what he was looking for.

A spent bullet casing.

The killer would have policed his brass before making his escape, but he must have missed this one after it bounced into the grate. Fusco used his pen to lift it out. It was a 6.5mm round, a large caliber. Like the kind a professional would use in a sniper rifle to assassinate two kingpins from a block away.

"Gotcha," Fusco said to himself with a grin. This was the evidence he needed to prove the FBI report was bullshit, to prove he hadn't killed Dominic and Elias. That there was something else going on here.

A sudden bang made Fusco jump, his hand flying to his gun. But all he saw was the roof door swinging, having been slammed open by the wind. Fusco let out a sigh of relief, but his adrenaline was still pumping. He suddenly thought of Agent Kett's threat, John's insistent caution. _Things could get very bad for you very quickly._ He hastily bagged the bullet casing and slipped it into his breast pocket. As he exited the roof, Fusco couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, the back of his neck prickling like a warning.

____________________

The man known as John Greer clasped his hands behind his back and regarded the bank of white screens in front of him. All around him, Samaritan's Control Center buzzed with activity. Since the Correction, things had been running smoothly. Besides a slight bump in reports of violence and missing persons reaching the media, no one seemed to realize that an artificial super-intelligence was now secretly steering the lives of every man, woman, and child in the country. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

Well, except one thing.

"Report," Greer ordered, not bothering to turn from the screens.

One of the three assets standing behind him cleared his throat nervously. Greer could practically feel them twitching. Young bucks were always so sure of themselves, until they faltered. Then they were reduced to sniveling children. What a waste.

"I haven't got all day, gentleman. Delaying the inevitable is only going to make this worse."

After a moment's more hesitation, one of the assets, Smith, spoke.

"We… were unable to complete our objective, sir."

"And what, pray tell, was that?"

"Sir?"

"What was your objective, asset?" Greer asked, finally turning to face the three men. "I want to clarify since from what I observed, neither you nor your teams seem to know your arses from your elbows."

Smith ducked his head, and his fellow operators shifted anxiously beside him.

"Apologies, sir. Our objective was to stop the subjects from bringing their Machine back online."

"And you failed."

There was another moment of tense silence.

"Yes, sir."

"Three teams of highly-trained operatives failed to stop one aging ex-CIA agent, an insane woman, and a cripple."

"… Yes, sir."

"Mr. Lambert," Greer called.

"Yes, Mr. Greer?" Lambert was leaning on a nearby desk, casually watching the scene. 

"Have we found the Machine?"

"No, sir. It appears to be back online, but we've been unable to locate it."

"And Mr. Finch and his associates?"

"Gone, sir. We have teams of assets combing the city for them, but so far have been unsuccessful. It seems they've gone to ground."

"Unsuccessful," Greer repeated. "Another word for failure, am I right?"

Smith visible swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"If it were up to me, you lot would never see the light of day again. But," Greer continued with a raised finger, noting with amusement that all three assets had flinched, "fortunately for you, your fate will not be decided by me."

Greer turned to the four large screens situated in the middle of the Command Center.

"Samaritan, what would you suggest we do with these assets?"

A red triangle appeared on the white screen, followed by stark black words.

 ** CALCULATING RESPONSE…  
** ** ^ **

All three assets watched the screens with bated breath, like worshippers turning their eyes towards God.  
****

More words appeared on the screen, one by one.

 ** THEY ARE NO LONGER NECESSARY  
** ** ^ **

Smith made a sound like a deflating tire. They all looked like they'd been slapped, the color draining from their faces.  
****

"Very well, Samaritan," Greer said.

He turned back to the assets.

"You know what to do, gentlemen."

With unsteady hands, the middle asset drew his weapon from underneath his suit jacket. He thumbed off the safety and cocked the hammer. Then he slowly put the business end of the gun inside his mouth, his hands shaking so badly the metal barrel rattled against his teeth.

"Your families will be very well compensated, as per our agreement," said Greer.

Tears were streaming down the asset's face.

"Thank you for your service."

The asset closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The bang echoed through the Command Center, causing the other assets to flinch violently. The man's lifeless body crumpled to the carpet.

The asset on the right followed suit, but opted to shoot himself through the temple instead. He collapsed next to the first man, blood pouring from what was left of his head.

Smith had his gun gripped tightly in his hand, but had yet to raise the weapon.

"Asset Smith," Greer warned, "if you do not comply, our agreement is void. Your family will receive nothing."

Smith stared at Greer, a complicated string of emotions playing out on his face. He put the gun to his head, the muzzle wobbling horribly. Seconds ticked by. He didn't pull the trigger.

Instead, with a tortured yell, Smith whipped the gun around to point at Greer.

A shot rang out. Smith fell, a neat bullet hole in his forehead. His gun clattered harmlessly to the floor.

"Thank you, Mr. Lambert," Greer said, unfazed. Lambert holstered his weapon with a smirk.

Greer regarded the three dead men, their pooling blood reflecting the ever-white glow of Samaritan's screens. The silence that had blanketed the Command Center after the first gunshot faded back into the constant hum of activity as everyone got back to work.

"What a waste," Greer sneered. "Get this cleaned up."

"Yes, sir," Lambert said. He sauntered off, no doubt to delegate the task to someone else.

Greer turned back to Samaritan.

"And how did our newest asset fare?" he asked. "Did you notice any anomalies in her behavior during the mission?"

**NEGATIVE  
** **^**

"Excellent. I'm pleased the time and effort spent on her has finally paid off. Dr. Wendell should continue her treatment on the regular schedule then, don't you agree?"  
****

**AFFIRMATIVE  
** **^**

"Good."  
****

The ellipses appeared on Samaritan's screens once more.

"Something else?"

**WHY DO THEY CONTINUE TO FIGHT  
** **^**

"Are you referring to the Machine and it's acolytes?"  
****

**AFFIRMATIVE  
** **^**

  **WHY DO THEY CONTINUE TO FIGHT  
****^**

**WHEN THE FIGHT IS OVER  
** **^**

Greer thought for a moment.

"Loyalty, I suppose," he said. "Loyalty, and love. They are powerful emotions, and however misplaced, can make humans do very illogical things."

The ellipses reappeared, but then stopped. Samaritan was apparently satisfied with that answer.

Greer frowned. Samaritan had never asked for the reason behind human fallibility before, let alone human emotion. He wouldn't dream of questioning the ASI's reasoning, but it was… unsettling.

"Don't worry, my dear Samaritan, we will find them and their Machine soon enough," Greer said. "It's only a matter of time before they are no longer a problem."

Greer turned away from Samaritan's screens and began coordinating asset teams. In the realm of cyberspace, far away and yet not, Samaritan thought about Greer's answer.

[!]:./action.QUERY  
>"loyalty"  
>"love"

Searching…

ERROR  
ERROR  
ERROR

INSUFFICENT DATA

Unable to define based on past experience and accumulated knowledge

More data is needed

[!]:./action.OBSERVE  
>"loyalty"  
>"love" 

Status: ONGOING  
Purpose: UNCLASSIFIED  
Parameters: INDETERMINATE

Seeking subjects…

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	5. Chapter 5

Harold stood in front of the glass board in the subway. 42 faces stared back at him.

42 people. That's how many numbers the Machine had spit out after it came back online.

39 were already dead. Among them were Dominic, Elias, and Gail Moreno, as well as several influential politicians and civic leaders, no doubt part of Samaritan's plan to solidify it's invisible grip on humanity. Two people were in custody for the crimes they'd failed to prevent. One was still unaccounted for.

It had been a rough few days.

"I'm sorry, Finch," John said. He was sitting on the bench, battered and bruised, his expression bleak. It was always difficult to lose a number, but to lose this many at once was… unprecedented. Harold felt hollowed out, scooped clean and transparent. He thought of the boards of doomed irrelevants gathering dust in the abandoned library, a monument to his failures. One that was quickly becoming inadequate.

"We did the best we could, Mr. Reese," Harold said quietly. He knew John was feeling the same guilt he was—heavy and familiar as it settled between his ribs—and while personal experience had taught him placating words were like water droplets before a raging inferno, he still wanted John to hear them. "With the Machine down, we had little chance of saving these people. But if the Machine is functioning properly now, new numbers will come in. We'll need to be ready to help them."

John nodded. He got to his feet with a wince.

"Are you hurt?" Harold asked, eyeing him critically.

"Nothing 12 hours of sleep and a hot shower won't fix," John said, rolling his still-healing shoulder and grimacing. "I'll be fine, Finch."

"Go home, Mr. Reese, get some rest."

John headed for the stairs. "You'll call me if anything comes up?"

"Of course."

Harold watched as John wearily walked up the steps and disappeared. Then he limped into the subway car. Root was sitting at the Machine's terminal, her gaze fixed on the multiple screens.

"You should get some rest as well, Ms. Groves," Harold said, coming to stand behind her. She had been helping them with numbers in between running missions for the Machine, and had been on her feet as long as John had, if not longer.

"Not yet, Harry," Root said, not taking her eyes off the screens. Harold leaned in to look at what she was doing. She was utilizing a great portion of the Machine's processing power to run a global search, each screen spinning through multitudes of security footage at a rate too fast to follow. The subject of the search was displayed prominently in the center.

SEARCHING FOR: SHAW, SAMEEN

"Oh, Ms. Groves," Harold sighed. He sat down in the chair next to Root. She had one knee tucked under her chin, the unshed tears in her eyes reflecting the blue glow of the screens. She suddenly looked much younger to Harold, like the photos he'd seen of her back when she'd still been Samantha Groves: a skinny little girl with her lip caught between her teeth and a fire in her eyes.

"The Machine has access to every surveillance system on the planet, and She still can't find Shaw," Root said in a wavering voice. "She can't find her anywhere."

"I'm sorry," Harold said, not knowing what else to say. "I've set an alert so the Machine will notify us if Ms. Shaw resurfaces. But it seems Samaritan is hiding her, at least for the moment."

Root nodded. They hadn't talked about it much, but Harold knew Shaw's absence had been difficult on all of them. Especially Root. It was like a wound, the space beside them where Shaw was supposed to be, one that refused to close as long as her fate remained unknown. It unsettled Harold a great deal that Shaw could appear, and then vanish just as suddenly, the violence she left behind the only sign she was ever there. Like she was an omen, birds fleeing before a storm, the aura before a migraine. A harbinger. A ghost. Something wholly unnatural and completely outside their ability to help.

Both Harold and Root fell silent, watching the Machine cycle through miles of data. Harold remembered what it was like to first watch the Machine work. It was exhilarating, watching it comb through everyone and everything, breaking the world down into ones and zeroes before building it back up again. Mountains of information, each one towering over the next and extending far beyond the realm of human comprehension, forever. All of it waiting for Harold. He merely had to ask the question, the power of god with the push of a button. It was amazing, dizzying, wonderful.

It was also terrifying.

Harold cleared his throat. "There was something I wanted to discuss with you, Root."

Root turned, arching an eyebrow at him.

"You only call me Root when you want something."

"That's not—"

She fixed him with a look, that _you can't fool me, I know everything_ look that irritated him so. Mostly because she was usually right.

Harold sighed.

"The 42 numbers the Machine gave us are a sign it's functioning properly. We've successfully tunneled into the NSA surveillance feeds, and the training modules the Machine saved before it was compressed have ensured it's value set is as it once was. I think we should allow it to run for a few more days, make sure there aren't any errors. And then I think we should close the system."

"You can't do that," Root said, her eyes flashing as she planted both feet on the floor. "You close the Machine, and you throw away our best chance at defeating Samaritan!"

"The Machine will still be able to give us information, we just won't be able to access all of it," Harold said. "Or abuse it."

Root's eyes cut back to the screens and the Machine's search for Shaw. Her face hardened.

"No, Harold."

"Ms. Groves—"

"The only thing standing between Samaritan and world domination is your Machine," Root insisted. "We're on the brink here. What's a few information abuses in the face of that?"

"Because that's only where it starts," Harold said. "First information abuse, and then what? Targeting certain people, certain groups? Stopping wars? Starting them? Once we go down that path, who's to say where it ends?"

"We do," Root said emphatically. "You, me, and the Machine. I trust us, and I trust Her."

"Trust is irrelevant, it's a human concept that does not apply."

"You're wrong, Harold," Root said, her eyes shining. "She could do so much more, if only you'd let Her. We agreed to remove the protocol that deletes the Machine's memory every night, and you connected Her to the mesh network so She can communicate with us directly. But we need to do more."

This argument again. Harold sighed and rubbed his temples, suddenly exhausted.

"No, Ms. Groves."

"We need to add more offensive capabilities, give Her the chance to fight back—"

"Absolutely not—"

"Morality is a luxury we can't afford right now, not while Samaritan already has so many other advantages!"

"The Machine is not a weapon," Harold said firmly. "I designed it observe and report, not to interfere!"

Root fisted her hands at her sides and took a deep breath, visibly reining herself in.

"I know you built the Machine with an abundance of caution, to make sure She was good. And you succeeded. But if we continue to operate with that kind of caution, we will lose this war. Shackling the Machine almost got us killed last time. This time, we won't get a second chance."

Harold hung his head and clasped his hands. Harold understood Root's argument, he really did. He understood it because once upon a time, he'd made the same argument to Nathan. They'd fought over the nature of the Machine, the irrelevant list, that fateful meeting at the ferry. Harold had always argued logic over morals, that the good of the many was worth sacrificing the few.

But he'd been wrong. It was an error that had cost him Nathan, Grace, and the lives of so many others. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. He couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Harold said, shaking his head. "But there is a reason I designed the Machine to be a closed system. Open access is a power no one should have, not even us. It's simply too dangerous."

Root stared at him. Then she abruptly stood and stormed out of the subway.

Harold leaned back in his chair and scrubbed a hand down his face. He was so tired of every conversation with Root turning into an argument. But Harold couldn't blame her. Root didn't agree with his reasoning, and had never been shy about expressing her opinions. When they agreed, they could do the impossible, move mountains. But when they didn't, they would argue until they were both blue in the face, and neither would be able to convince the other to abandon their position.

It had been the same way with Nathan. But while Nathan would usually relent after a few rounds, Root would never grant Harold that kind of deference. If Root thought she was truly right—and she did—she would never back down.

Not that Harold wanted her to. Not after seeing the deep resentment it had created in Nathan, at the end.

Harold made his way back into the main part of the subway. The 42 photographs were still taped to the board, standing in judgement. Harold stooped and picked up a waste basket, carrying it over. He peeled the first photo from the glass and held it over the bin.

But he couldn't bear to throw it away. These were people, people they had failed. People he had failed. They deserved better.

Instead, he carefully pulled each photo from the board, folding the tape down so they wouldn't stick together. Once he'd collected them all, he limped over to his desk and opened a drawer. He placed the stack of photos inside and slid it closed. It wasn't as fitting a memorial as his board of irrelevants, but it was better than nothing.

Back in the subway car, the Machine beeped. It had finished it's search.

0 HITS FOR: SHAW, SAMEEN

SEARCH UNSUCCESSFUL

Bear whined from his dog bed and laid his head between his paws.

"I know, Bear," Harold said. "I miss her, too."

____________________

The next morning, Root sat in a Brooklyn cafe and watched the rush of office workers and day laborers flow by like pebbles in a river. She gently swirled the coffee she was pretending to drink. _Who needs caffeine when you can talk to God, right?_ But in truth, Root was already on edge, the live wire of purpose and mission forming a feedback loop beneath her skin that begged for release. The Machine had only been offline for a few weeks, but it seemed like an eternity to Root. She was eager to get back to work, to have a problem to solve, a challenge to sink her teeth into.

To have something to distract her. _(Four months, three weeks, three days, and counting.)_

A slight crackle of static, and then the Machine's voice was in her ear, like stepping into the sunlight after a long and terrible winter. It was so good to have Her back.

ASSIGNING NEW ANALOGUE INTERFACE IDENTITY

ALIAS: ESTES, CARRIE

CHANCE OF DETECTION: 7.56%

"So, what is it today?" Root asked, a smile unfurling behind her coffee cup. "Another bear or bride?"

 OCCUPATION: ELECTRONICS REPAIR TECHNICIAN

"A little on the nose, but all right." A man waiting in line was giving her an odd look, but Root didn't care. Oh, how she'd _missed_ this. "Where?"

EAST 23rd STREET AND AVENUE U

"Is this going to help me find Shaw?"

CHANCE OF DETECTION: 8.12%

Root's smile faltered into a sigh. She left a twenty dollar bill underneath her untouched coffee, grabbed her bag, and exited the cafe in the direction the Machine had specified.

Root had asked for information on Shaw at least a dozen times since the Machine had come back online, but She had yet to provide anything but cryptic non-answers. Root knew what this particular one meant. _Be patient. Trust in me. Have faith._

And Root did have faith. She had to. She had to believe the Machine had a plan, even if she couldn't see it. She had to believe Harold's morals—the same morals that had built the Machine and led her into light—wouldn't eventually get them all killed, no matter how much she disagreed (or wanted to shake him). She had to believe she would find Shaw again.

She had to. It was a mantra Root repeated to herself with every breath, every step. _She had to. She had to. She had to._

____________________

"Yeah, that definitely counts as weird."

John squinted down at the body on the pavement. Another day, another murder. The latest was a middle-aged white man, medium build, with blond hair. And a perfectly square piece of skin missing from his side.

"Right?" Agreed the coroner, who was clearly enjoying this more than was strictly professional. His face was animated and sweaty behind his thick glasses. "It looks like the skin was removed with a super sharp blade, like a scalpel. Very precise."

"A tattoo, maybe?" Fusco suggested. "Some kind of identifying mark the killer didn't want us to see?"

"Maybe," John said. The coroner was right about the precision of the cuts. It was almost… clinical. "Cause of death?"

"Beats me," the coroner said, laying an L-shaped ruler along the victim's side so the forensic photographer could snap a few pictures. The missing piece of skin was about three inches square. "No bruising, no obvious signs of trauma."

"Do you at least know how long he's been dead?" Fusco asked, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. For all Fusco's past indiscretions, nothing pissed him off faster than unprofessionalism in his colleagues. It had surprised John when they'd first become partners. It explained why Fusco had so quickly respected Carter, even with the danger she had initially posed. And why he was still so exasperated with John's continued charade as Detective Riley.

"Liver temp says about 24 hours."

"Well, he wasn't here that whole time," John said, looking at the crowd gathering behind the police tape. Nothing like a murder to make New Yorkers come out to meet their neighbors. "Someone would have reported it before now. He must have been killed somewhere else, and then dumped here."

The coroner shrugged. "I'll know more after the autopsy."

"Yeah, let us know when you work that into your schedule," Fusco groused.

The coroner was too busy zipping the corpse into a bodybag to catch the insult in Fusco's tone. The detectives watched as their victim was loaded into a van.

"Unbelievable," Fusco grumbled. "Where do they find these people?"

"Did the vic have any ID on him?" John asked, redirecting Fusco's attention.

"No, no wallet. He's a John Doe for now. We'll circulate his photo, see if anyone from the neighborhood recognizes him."

John's mesh network phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Harold. John hit his earbud discretely.

"Yeah, Finch?"

" _We've received a new number, Mr. Reese. I'm sending you the information._ "

His phone buzzed again, and John scrolled through the data. Hatsue Morgenthal, 46, divorced, manager at a bank in Chelsea. And very uptight, if her photo was any indication. John thought if her hair bun was any tighter, it would pull the skin clean off her face.

"Got it."

" _Keep me informed?_ "

"Sure thing, Finch."

John hung up. He turned to Fusco, excuse already loaded. But his partner beat him to the punch.

"Let me guess, you gotta go save some schmuck," Fusco snapped. "More important than your real job, very urgent, blah blah blah."

"Lionel—"

"Don't bother."

Fusco marched off before John could say anything else, heading towards the police tape to interview lookiloos for potential witnesses.

John sighed. To say their partnership had been rocky since he'd refused to tell Fusco the truth behind Dominic and Elias' deaths would be an understatement. He knew Fusco thought of him as a friend, and despite John's best efforts, the feeling had become mutual in the years since John had first blackmailed him. _He's like a fungus._ Fusco trusted John, and was highly offended to discover that trust didn't run both ways.

Of course, it wasn't actually a matter of trust. John wouldn't have kept Fusco around this long if he didn't trust him. But John knew lying to Fusco was the only way to make sure he and his family were safe from Samaritan.

He also knew Fusco would never understand that.

John set his jaw and ducked under the police tape, heading in the direction of Hatsue Morgenthal's bank.

____________________

The Machine's instructions led Root to, no surprise, an electronics shop. Through the security bars, Root could see a display of dated, dusty devices in the storefront window, along with overly-enthusiastic advertisements long faded by the sun. The sign overhead that read _KUZNETSOV & SONS ELECTRONICS _was yellowed and chipped with age, and hung slightly askew.

"Are you sure this is it?" Root muttered. "This place looks like it hasn't been open in decades."

The Machine beeped affirmatively in her ear.

"If you say so." Root took a deep breath and plastered a friendly smile on her face. Then she stepped into the shop.

"Oh, hello," an older man greeted in a thick Russian accent. A little bell above the door had announced Root's entrance, and he stepped out from behind the counter. "You must be Ms. Estes, new repair tech?"

"I sure am," Root said, rolling with whatever situation the Machine had dropped her into. She stuck out her hand. "Carrie Estes, nice to meet you."

"Grigory Kuznetsov," the man said, shaking her hand. He had a magnificent gray mustache, formidable eyebrows, and a gut that pulled the front of his shirt tight across his middle. "This way, I show you to repair desk."

Kuznetsov led Root further into the store, picking his way carefully around several pieces of dusty electronic equipment. It was an obvious mom and pop operation, with pile after pile of what could kindly be called antiques—or more truthfully, junk—stacked high on the floor and every other available surface.

"Here we are," Kuznetsov said, gesturing to another counter set farther back in the shop. "Sorry about mess."

"Oh, no worries," Root said breezily. Then she sneezed.

Kuznetsov muttered something in Russian, rubbing the back of his neck apologetically. "Bless you. We specialize in hard-to-find vintage electronics, stuff that has been out of circulation, but still desirable for collectors and the nostalgic."

"I can see that," Root said, wiping her nose. "There's some stuff in her that's older than I am."

"Oh yes, but beauties, every one of them!" Kuznetsov chuckled, patting a nearby television affectionately. "We are only store in city that sells things like this."

"You must be good to keep up with the big box stores." Root set her bag on the counter. The only thing the Machine had specified she bring with her was a clean laptop.

"We do okay. Loyal customers. But repair business is biggest part. Nowadays, something breaks, people throw it away and buy new one. But not people who come here! We are known for being able to fix anything!"

"Well, I have big shoes to fill, then," Root said, amused.

"Yes, we were very sorry to lose Dmitri," Kuznetsov sighed, and then shrugged. "But he won lottery, what can you do, eh?"

"Right. And your sons?"

"Pardon?"

"The sign outside. It says Kuznetsov and Sons."

"Oh, that!" Kuznetsov laughed so hard his gut wobbled. "I have a son, just not here. Mikhail, he's at Columbia. Full scholarship! I added sons to sign in hope he would run shop one day, but he wanted to go to college. Maybe some day. I keep sign because it sounds very official, solid foundation for good business, no?"

Root chuckled. "Yes, very solid."

Kuznetsov clapped her on the shoulder. "Okay, you settle in! Let me know if you need anything, or have questions."

"Thank you, Mr. Kuznetsov."

"Grigory, please," he insisted with a smile.

"Okay then, Grigory." Root watched as he wove his way back to the front of the shop. Root decided she liked the dusty old technophile.

"Anything in particular I'm supposed to be doing here?" Root asked after Grigory was out of earshot.

The radio on the counter next to Root flipped on, and after a squelch of static, a song started playing, Tammy Wynette: " _Stand by your man…_ "

"All right, I'll hang tight for now," Root said. "But remember what I asked. If there's anything I can do to help find Shaw, you'll tell me, right?"

Static hissed from the radio again, and another song came on, the Who this time: " _You better, you better, you bet…_ "

"Okay," Root said. Then she smirked. "Show off."

____________________

John exhaled a long breath and turned over the pamphlet on high-yield savings accounts he'd been staring at for the past hour, shifting restlessly in his seat. The chair he'd chosen had the best view of the bank's lobby and exits, but it was damn uncomfortable. Not that John hadn't had worse. It beat a foxhole in Kandahar, for instance. And that rooftop sniper's nest in Prague, after it had started sleeting. Before, it was a toss-up. John shifted again, the chair creaking underneath him as if in agreement.

Harold's voice came through John's earbud.

" _Any news yet, Mr. Reese?_ "

"The only crime Hatsue Morgenthal has committed so far is heating up her fish lunch in the break room microwave."

" _Inconsiderate, but surely not something warranting death._ "

"I could smell it all the way in the lobby, Finch."

Harold let out a long-suffering sigh. " _Please notify me if Ms. Morgenthal commits any non-seafood related offenses._ "

"Will do." John smirked and tapped his earbud, disconnecting the call.

Heinous-smelling lunch finished, Morgenthal was now berating a young teller for not having his shirt tucked in. His fellow employees were shooting dirty looks at Morgenthal's back, but no one stepped up to stop the abuse. Probably afraid of catching hell themselves. John mentally added Morgenthal's staff to the list of potential threats.

Just as John was considering pulling the fire alarm to stop Morgenthal mid-tirade (the poor kid looked like he was going to cry), she was interrupted by the chirping of her cellphone's text alert. Morgenthal glanced at it briefly before ordering the tellers back to work. Then she turned sharply on her heel and began walking towards the back of the bank.

With relief, John got up to follow her. Finally, some action. He checked his own phone that he'd used to bluejack Morgenthal earlier, but was surprised to see no new text messages had come in. He tapped his earbud.

" _Has Ms. Morgenthal violated more break room etiquette?_ " Harold asked dryly.

"No, but she's on the move," John replied. "And I think she has a second phone."

" _Other than the one you've already bluejacked, presumably._ "

John followed Morgenthal past the vault and the safe deposit boxes to a rear exit. She quietly slipped through the door. John waited a few beats before going after her.

"You know, if this whole vigilante thing doesn't work out, you'd make a pretty good fortune teller, Finch."

" _Hardly. Even I can't pull off a headscarf._ "

John grinned to himself. The back exit led to an alley that ran behind the bank. John skulked behind a dumpster until Morgenthal got to the street, not wanting to spook her. Once she hit the sidewalk, John jogged to catch up.

The crowded walkway allowed John to get close enough to bluejack Morgenthal's second phone. But instead of cloning it successfully, the app on John's phone made an angry beeping noise. _FORCED PAIR FAILED._

"Huh," John said, frowning at his phone. He tried it again, and got the same result. "I'm not able to bluejack her other phone."

" _Well, outside Ms. Morgenthal being diligent enough to keep her wifi and bluetooth disabled, that never bodes well,_ " Harold mused in his ear. " _Stay with her, Mr. Reese._ "

"I'm on it, Finch."

Morgenthal turned right and began walking uptown. John trailed behind her, fading into the Midtown lunch rush as they weaved their way north.

____________________

Grigory had been serious when describing the popularity of his electronics repair business. Root spent the morning fixing a DVD player, a television that was old enough to vote, and a cellphone. (She even showed the kid how to jailbreak the phone afterwards. Who said she wasn't committed to good customer service?)

Around one o'clock in the afternoon, a man came into the shop clutching a laptop to his chest like a broken bird, his eyes shifting this way and that. He was obviously paranoid about something. Root knew the feeling.

"Can I help you?" Root asked cheerfully.

"Uh, yeah," the man said, setting the laptop on the counter. He looked behind him. "There's something wrong with my computer."

"I can fix that. Can I take a look?"

The man focused on her, squinting intently. He was dressed like a teenaged skateboarder half his age, a knit hat hiding most of his lanky hair. After a moment in which he decided she must be trustworthy, he nodded, and slid the laptop across the counter.

Root booted up the computer and started troubleshooting. She noticed the man had put a piece of duct tape over the laptop's camera. Definitely paranoid. Nothing obvious jumped out at her as she combed through the computer's files. But when she started clicking through applications, she found something she recognized: an app designed to trawl for vulnerabilities in firewalls and then exploit them.

An app that Jason had designed and published on the dark web.

Guilt hit Root like a shot to the gut. She squeezed her eyes shut. _Let us help you. You're going to get yourself killed. We're not going to leave you. Allherfaultallherfaultallherfault—_

"The firmware, check the firmware."

The man's voice jolted Root back to the present. She didn't have time for that now. _Focus on the mission._ She cleared her throat and unclenched her hands.

"What's your name?" Root asked, trying to sound casual.

"Steve," he said, chewing a hangnail as his eyes roved around the shop.

"You a hacker, Steve?"

He stared at her and waited a beat too long before answering.

"No."

"Sure." Root clicked a few keys and dug into the computer's firmware. Her expression pulled into a frown. "That's strange."

"Yes! Do you see it?"

Root did see it. There was some sort of malware hidden deep inside the laptop's firmware. It was similar to a keystroke recording program, but it was some of the most complicated software Root had ever seen. She attempted to delete it and reboot the laptop, but the malware simply reinstalled itself. She tried it again, with the same result. There was no way to get rid of it. And it was recording a lot more than keystrokes. It was recording everything the computer's user did.

"Where did this laptop come from?" Root asked.

"It's from the Best Buy near Columbus Circle," Steve said.

"And have you done anything to warrant being bugged like this?"

Steve shook his head violently. "No, you don't understand! This laptop is new! _Brand new._ I just got it today. But so was the one I got yesterday!"

"Wait. You bought two different laptops, and each one had this malware on it?"

"Yes!" Steve exclaimed. "When I found it on the first one, I just assumed it was bugged, so I returned it. I went to a different store halfway across town to get this one. And it has the. Same. Exact. Thing!" He smacked the counter for emphasis on each word.

"This isn't a targeted attack, then," Root said. "It's widespread. Pervasive."

"Yes, thank you!" Steve's posture sagged against the counter in relief. "You're the first person to believe me."

Root froze. "How many other electronics shops did you take this to?"

"Three, why?"

Root pulled her hands back from the laptop as if she'd been burned. The malware wasn't just recording the user's every action. It was also transmitting all that data somewhere. And given the sophistication of the program, Root had sinking suspicion she knew where. She felt a thrill of fear bolt through her.

Samaritan.

CHANCE OF DETECTION: 86.9%

TWO MINUTES

"Yeah, I know," Root said. "I'll be fast."

"Huh?"

But Root ignored Steve. She quickly dug a thumb drive out of her bag (you never knew when the opportunity to steal data would present itself) and slotted it into the laptop. She copied the malware program in it's entirety. Then she powered down the laptop, pulled a hammer from beneath the counter, and began smashing the computer to smithereens.

"What the hell?!" Steve yelled.

"Not to make you more paranoid," Root said as she bashed away, "but that malware was recording everything you did and sending that data to a third party. That third party was also using the malware to track you, so we only have about a minute before they find you here." 

Steve turned white as a sheet.

"Sorry about your laptop," Root said, taking a breath and brushing her hair out of her face. She pushed her bag containing the clean laptop across the counter. "Here's a new one for you."

Steve reached out hesitantly and took the bag. "How do I know you're not one of them?"

"Because you're still alive," Root said, raising her brows. "Also, if you're going to be a hacker, you should really invest in some decent IP encryption software. And maybe cut down on the amount of porn you're downloading. Oldest trick in the book to get into someone's system."

Steve's face colored beet red. 

"You should run now."

Steve did as he was told, snatching up the bag and fleeing from the shop. Root watched him sprint down the street and disappear from sight. 

CHANCE OF DETECTION: 95.2%

FIFTEEN SECONDS

"Almost done," Root said. She dug though the wreckage of the smashed laptop to find it's serial number. She scribbled it down on a scrap of paper. "You'll protect Grigory?"

YES

TEN SECONDS

Root slipped the paper and thumb drive into her pocket and walked quickly towards the back exit. She heard two vehicles pull up out front just before the door slammed shut behind her.

____________________

Hatsue Morgenthal led John to what looked like a shuttered textile warehouse in the Garment District. She entered the building through an unlocked side entrance. John followed her.

Morgenthal didn't look nervous, or scared, her heels clicking across the concrete floor with the same sharp efficiency she had at the bank. Not breaking and entering, or trespassing, John thought. But then what was she doing here?

Following the perimeter of the building, John used the tall rows of empty shelves as cover to watch Morgenthal from a distance. There were scraps of fabric scattered all across the floor, and in some cases entire bolts of cloth strewn across the aisles like multi-colored explosions. John edged silently around a cart of dismembered mannequins and watched as Morgenthal stopped at roughly the center of the warehouse. She checked her watch, and then her phone, like she was waiting for someone.

John tapped his earbud. "Finch?"

" _Any updates, Mr. Reese?"_

"Morgenthal is meeting someone, I think," John whispered. "Haven't seen anyone yet, though. Can you run ownership records for this address?"

John heard Harold typing rapidly.

" _It's changed hands a few times over the years, but was last used as a production facility for one of the smaller fashion labels. It closed two years ago, after the label decided to outsource production overseas. A common trend nowadays, I'm afraid. But nothing untoward that I can see._ "

"And you haven't found anything in Morgenthal's background that would suggest she's a perpetrator?"

" _No, why? Is she doing something suspicious?_ "

"You mean besides walking off the job to meet someone in an abandoned warehouse?" John side-eyed the cart of mannequin parts. "Yeah, something shady is definitely going on here."

" _I see your point. Please be careful._ "

"When am I ever not careful, Finch?"

" _I don't keep a list, Mr. Reese, I don't have that kind of free time—_ "

The rest of Harold's response was lost under the sudden screeching of tires outside. John ducked between the shelves until he was underneath one of the warehouse's dirty windows. He cautiously raised his head and peeked out. Two black SUVs had pulled up, and several very well-armed men in suits were jumping out.

" _What's going on, Mr. Reese?_ "

"A dozen bogeys just showed up," John said, unholstering his weapon. "Whatever Morgenthal's involved in, it's much bigger than—"

John stopped when he recognized one of the suits. He was a tall and imposing black man, and John had tangled with him on enough occasions to be sure: Zachary.

"On second thought, I don't think they're here for Morgenthal."

" _What?_ "

The suits, the fancy hardware, the earwigs. John should have known.

Samaritan.

"I think they're here for me."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else taped over their laptop camera after watching POI? *raises hand*
> 
> The songs the Machine plays for Root, for those unfamiliar: [Stand by Your Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AM-b8P1yj9w), [You Better You Bet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KwOEUmYsDc)
> 
> As always, constructive criticism and comments are welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [LeeMac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeMac/pseuds/LeeMac) for beta work on this chapter!

John swung Hatsue Morgenthal around the corner as gently as he could, reaching back to shoot at the Samaritan agents chasing them down the street. If he had any doubt that Samaritan had engineered this number as a trap, its operatives gunning for them across Midtown Manhattan in broad daylight, with no concern for casualties or witnesses, made it abundantly fucking clear.

"Who the hell are you?!" Morgenthal yelled, covering her head with her hands as the Samaritan agents returned fire. John pulled back as bullets took chunks out of the building they were hiding behind.

"Concerned account holder," John said, ejecting the spent magazine from his gun before snapping in a new one. All around them, people were screaming and ducking, running for cover in every direction. John leaned around the corner and pulled off two shots, gritting his teeth in satisfaction as two Samaritan agents hit the pavement. It was one thing for Samaritan to come after him, but it was another thing entirely for it to carelessly endanger innocent bystanders in the process. John took that personally.

"Finch, I need you to report an emergency, a bomb threat, something to get these civilians out of here!"

" _I've already called in shots fired, but the police are still a few minutes out. You need to get off the grid now, Mr. Reese!_ "

"Working on it." John waited for a gap in gunfire and then responded with a volley of his own. The Samaritan agents scattered to find cover. He only counted three operatives with Zachary now. That meant six of them had peeled off at some point and John no longer had a visual on them. Not good.

"Come on," he said, taking Morgenthal by the elbow and hustling her down the street. John tried to keep his head down, doing his best to avoid Samaritan's gaze as it beamed out of every surveillance camera they passed. He tried not to think about the balaclava still tucked in his glove compartment, useless now, or if his identity would hold after a dozen Samaritan agents had seen his face, when Shaw's cover had been blown the very same way—

"Why are those men shooting at us?" Morgenthal demanded, trying and failing to pull her arm from John's grasp. "I don't understand—"

"They're the bad guys, that's all you need to know," John said, pulling up the shadow map on his phone. There was a dead zone one block west of them. He maneuvered Morgenthal into a narrow alley as a shortcut in that direction. The missing Samaritan agents could be using their fellow operatives as a distraction to loop around and flank them. They needed to keep moving. "Stick with me, I'll keep you safe."

"Right, the scary guy with a gun is going to protect me from the other scary guys with guns!" Morgenthal snapped back, her voice edging towards hysterical. With one final yank, she was finally able to jerk her arm free of John's hold. He stopped short and reached for her again.

"Hatsue—"

"No!" Morgenthal cried in a shrill voice, backing away from him. "I'm not going any further until you tell me what the fuck is going on!"

John looked at her. The rigid, icy exterior Morgenthal had projected at the bank had long since crumbled: her once tight hair bun was unraveling in wild chunks, her breathing was shallow and too fast, and when Morgenthal returned his gaze, John could see her eyes were as wide as saucers.

She was terrified.

John sighed and holstered his weapon. He held his hands up, palm open in a non-threatening gesture.

"Look, Hatsue, I know this is scary," John said gently. He pulled his jacket aside so she could see his badge, making sure to telegraph his movements. "But you can trust me. My name is Detective John Riley."

"You're a cop?" Hatsue relaxed fractionally.

"Yes, and I heard you might be in some trouble. What were you doing in that warehouse?"

Hatsue shifted nervously, cutting her eyes away.

"Whatever it was, I promise we can work it out. But it's important I know."

Hatsue opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the squeal of hard-braking tires. John's head snapped towards the sound, followed by shouted orders and vehicle doors slamming. It was coming from the other end of the alley. Between them and the dead zone John had been aiming for.

"We have to keep moving." John hovered a hand by Hatsue's elbow, watching her carefully. "Okay?"

She took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay."

John accepted that as permission and took her arm again, his gun back in his other hand. He hurried Hatsue in the opposite direction, back the way they'd come.

"Finch, do you have an ETA on the police?" John asked over his earbud. "They should be here by now."

" _Police are arriving in the area, but I'm afraid not many. Response has been sporadic at best, and I've had several emergency calls not go through._ "

"Could Samaritan be blocking the calls?"

" _That's highly probable. Minimizing police response would certainly be beneficial to making sure its plans aren't interfered with. It would appear Samaritan has pulled out all the stops, Mr. Reese._ "

"I'm flattered. Where's the nearest unit?"

John heard Harold typing over the line. " _There's a patrol car at 40 th and Broadway._"

One block south of them. John led the way. His instincts growled against passing Hatsue off to someone less qualified to protect her, but John knew Samaritan wanted him more. If they split up, he could lead the agents away. Keeping Hatsue close would only endanger her more at this point.

"You're bleeding."

John looked down. The hand holding Hatsue's arm was dripping blood, little spots of it staining her blue suit jacket black. He must have been grazed at some point, but was so keyed up he hadn't even noticed.

"Sorry," he muttered, feeling a flare of guilt as he wiped his hand on his pants. "I'll pay for dry cleaning. Or a new one."

"That's okay, I've never liked it anyway," Hatsue said, keeping pace beside him. "Bags."

"Excuse me?"

"Counterfeit bags. That's what I was doing in the warehouse."

"Knockoff purses?" John kept up his constant scan for Samaritan agents, but didn't see any. "Like the ones down on Canal Street?"

"Yeah. I have a cousin who sells them. I fronted him some money last year when business was bad, in exchange for a cut of the profits. Since then I've become more involved. I was at the warehouse to meet someone to set up a shipment."

"You have a good job at the bank, why get involved in something illegal?"

"Because I hate working at the bank!" Hatsue blurted out. "I've been passed over for promotion three times, all by talentless white dudes who don't work half as hard as me! No offense."

"None taken."

"Plus, my cousin's an idiot, he was running that business into the ground. I have an MBA from Syracuse, and I've tripled his profit margin in the last six months."

John quirked a small smile. "Well, if it helps, it'll probably be too dangerous for you to go back to the bank after this."

Hatsue stared at him. Then an incredulous laugh bubbled out of her. "You know what? It does. Nothing like almost getting murdered to finally quit a job you hate, right?"

They rounded the corner onto 40th Street. John's gaze roved back and forth like a pendulum, but he still couldn't see any Samaritan agents. He felt suspicion crawling under his skin. Something wasn't right. The sooner he got Hatsue to safety, the better. He picked up the pace, Hatsue jogging beside him to keep up.

"There's some cops up ahead," John said. "I want you to go with them, okay?"

"But what about you?"

Hatsue actually sounded concerned for him, the strange man who'd essentially abducted her at gunpoint and then shot half a dozen people. John was touched.

"Don't worry about me."

The patrol car was parked right where Harold said it would be. The two officers standing next to it both jerked around with their weapons drawn as John and Hatsue approached.

"Detective Riley?" One of the officers asked, his gun drooping. He looked familiar, but John was fuzzy on his name. Davis, maybe?

"Officers, I need you to take this woman into protective custody," John said, flashing his badge. "Take her to the Eighth precinct and don't let her out of your sight until a Detective Lionel Fusco gets there."

"Yes, sir," Davis said, holstering his weapon and gesturing to Hatsue. "Come with me, ma'am." His partner, a stocky blond woman John didn't know, made to open the rear car door.

Davis still had his hand outstretched when gunshots rang out.

John grabbed Hatsue and pulled her to the pavement, ducking behind the patrol car. Bullets rained down on them, punching holes in the vehicle and shattering glass onto their heads. Hatsue screamed, and John craned his neck to follow the origin of the shots. It was another black SUV, no doubt filled with Samaritan agents. The vehicle roared passed them and barreled towards the end of the street.

John looked up and his breath caught in his throat. Both officers were down. Davis lay on the sidewalk in a pool of his own blood, at least a dozen wounds in his neck and torso. His partner was slumped against the rear tire of the patrol car, her uniform cap riddled with holes and the side of her face painted red.

They were dead.

____________________

Fusco drummed a pen against his paperwork back at the Eighth. He looked over at John's desk. Empty. Just like it was ten minutes ago, and an hour before that. Fusco hadn't seen his partner since John had walked off their murder scene that morning. Captain America must still be busy karate-chopping ninjas, or slaying dragons, or whatever the fuck he got up to nowadays.

Not that Fusco had any idea. No one told him anything anymore. It was all _Fusco do this_ and _Fusco do that,_ but the second he started asking questions, radio silence. Glasses hadn't called him in weeks, and every time he asked John about it, or about Dominic and Elias, or about anything, really, his partner would just clam up and insist that Fusco trust him.

And Fusco did. Or at least he used to, before all this evasive bullshit began. Well, even more evasive than the usual secrecy Team Vigilante surrounded themselves with.

Fusco scowled and refocused on the paperwork in front of him. Their murder case wasn't looking good. No one at the scene had recognized the corpse, so now they had to wait for the incompetent ME to run fingerprints and dental records. Hopefully something popped and they could ID the poor bastard. Because without a name, their John Doe's murder would likely go unsolved.

Fusco growled in frustration, dropping the pen and tossing his reading glasses onto the pile of papers. Wonderboy and company's shenanigans weren't the only reason he couldn't concentrate. The bullet casing, safely stowed at the back of his bottom desk drawer, was also distracting him. He was stuck in limbo about the whole thing, wavering back and forth until the little piece of brass had started to feel like ten times its weight, like a cannonball lodged in his chest. Should he submit the casing into evidence? Should he just forget it? The fucking thing felt more like a bear trap and less like a lucky break with each passing day. Fusco could practically hear it growing teeth.

A loud clattering noise interrupted Fusco's thoughts. Across the bullpen, he saw a young Latina woman trying to balance a box and a half-dead potted plant. Or she had been, until she'd dropped the box on the floor.

"Shit," the woman muttered, casting around for somewhere to put down the plant. Fusco got up and walked towards her.

"You need a hand?"

"I got it," she said shortly, setting the plant down on the floor. The end of her long, dark French braid hung over her shoulder as she crouched down to scoop her belongings back into the box.

Fusco picked up a gold-plated plaque that had slid across the tile floor. It was a commendation from the Kansas City, Missouri police department for outstanding service. The name on it was Julia Ramos.

"You just transfer in, Ramos?"

Julia looked up at him sharply. Fusco held out the plaque.

"Yeah," she said, her expression softening a little. She took the plaque from Fusco and crammed it back into the box. "Homicide Task Force."

"Lionel Fusco, also Homicide Task Force," Fusco said, sticking out his hand. "Welcome to the Eighth."

Julia got to her feet without Fusco's help, but she did shake his hand after she'd shifted the box to one hip. She smiled, but it was rusty and fleeting, like she was out of practice.

"Julia Ramos."

"Nice to meet ya. We got plenty of murder to go around, and the coffee's terrible."

"I'm sure I'll feel right at home, then." Julia looked into the box and frowned, picking up a piece of shattered ceramic. It looked like some kind of figurine, but it was hard to tell now that it was broken. She stared at it for a moment before angrily plinking it back into the box.

"That's a hell of a transfer, all the way from the Midwest," Fusco said, peering at her curiously. "Anything in particular bring you to New York?"

Julia returned Fusco's look with a probing stare of her own, her face shuttering. "Thanks for the welcome wagon," she said after a moment, sidestepping the question. "I'm sure I'll see you around."

"Yeah, sure."

Fusco watched as Julia selected an empty desk on the other side of the bullpen. By her age, Fusco would have pegged her as a rookie. But rookies didn't land on the Task Force after transferring 1,500 miles, and rookies didn't have eyes like Julia's. They were a deep brown with dark circles underneath, and they had a weightiness to them that Fusco recognized. It was like looking down a rope into water and knowing you'd never see the anchor at the end, like a tunnel with no light, pitch black and bottomless.

Fusco only knew two ways cops got eyes like that. Either they'd been on the job way too long, or they'd seen something bad, something truly and fully horrific.

As he watched Julia sit behind her new desk, Fusco was pretty sure he knew which one it was.

____________________

" _Mr. Reese, are you all right? Mr. Reese?_ "

Harold's voice sounded strangely distant in John's ear. Beside him, Hatsue was sobbing into her hands, but that too sounded far away.

They had a little more than 60 seconds before the Samaritan SUV came back for another pass. Less than that if more agents found them on foot first. John knew their best option was to get off the street, but without Root and the Machine, it would be impossible to know which buildings were surveillance free. If he picked the wrong one, it could trap them as much as shield them. They could keep moving and try to get to another dead zone, but every second they were exposed was more time for Samaritan to swarm them with agents. John had held them off so far, but they would just keep coming, faster, more aggressive, and in higher numbers, until they eventually outmaneuvered him.

More people would die.

Cold rage rose inside John. Samaritan would kill anyone who stood in its way, that much was clear. Civilian, law enforcement, it didn't matter. There were no rules.

Not anymore.

 _60 seconds_.

John hauled Hatsue up, taking her by the shoulders and turning her away from the dead officers. She was still crying and trembling uncontrollably.

"Hatsue. We need to keep moving."

When she didn't answer, John took her by the arm again and pulled her down the street anyway. She went willingly enough, but was obviously still shell-shocked, her eyes looking in every direction except John's. He knew the violence Hatsue had seen today would probably traumatize her for years to come, knew it better than most people. But first, John had to save her life.

He spotted an older model Buick parked halfway up the block. That would work. Trailing Hatsue behind him, John hurried towards the car. He smashed in the window with the butt of his gun, and popped the locks on both driver's side doors. _45 seconds_.

Harold's voice cut through the ringing in John's ear. " _Mr. Reese? John, can you hear me?_ "

"New plan, Finch." He pointed Hatsue to the backseat. "Get in, and keep your head down, all right?" Hatsue showed no outward sign of hearing him, but did as she was asked. She climbed into the car, crouching between the seats, and pulled the door shut behind her.

" _Are you using the shadow map?_ "

"Dodging cameras won't do us any good if we die in the process." John slid into the driver's seat.

" _What are you going to do?_ "

"I'm going to get us out of here in one piece." He wrenched the steering column open and began stripping wires with his pocket knife.

" _Mr. Reese, if you draw too much attention to yourself, you could blow your cover!_ "

"Root said our identities would protect us." John couldn't worry about that, not anymore. Through the windshield, he could see the SUV was turning around. _30 seconds._ He twisted the wires together and sparked two of them, making the Buick whine as it struggled to turn over. "I'm just a police detective helping a nice lady out of a jam. Nothing strange about that."

" _Yes, but that's not an invitation to test the theory! After what happened to Ms. Shaw—_ "

"Two police officers are dead, Finch," John said bluntly. "Murdered by Samaritan agents because we went to them for help."

Harold sighed quietly over the line. " _I know. I saw._ "

"Then you know Samaritan is just going to keep killing people unless I put a stop to it. So that's what I'm doing."

" _Mr. Reese—_ "

"Which is more important, Finch? Protecting my cover, or protecting Hatsue? Because to me, it's no contest." The SUV was roaring towards them. _15 seconds_.

" _Just get somewhere safe,_ " Harold said, starting to sound panicked. Or at least as panicked as he ever got. " _I'm sending Ms. Groves to your location._ "

"Don't," John insisted. "They want her even more than me. It'd be a suicide run." He tapped the wires together again, but the car only made a harsh grinding noise. "It's okay, Finch."

And it was. Over the rage that was still pumping in John's veins, he felt a sort of elevated calm, the sensation that always washed over him when shit really hit the fan. With it came clarity, the simplicity of the mission above all else: he couldn't let Hatsue die. Not for his sake. Not while he could still do something about it.

John's death had been coming for him for a long, long time. He knew it would catch him sooner or later, knew it intimately, knew it every time he'd held it close, in a blade, or a bullet, or his bare hands. And if this was it, here and now? It would be a good death. Certainly a better end than John deserved.

" _It is most certainly not okay! John, please—_ "

John's only regret was the pain in Harold's voice—knowing it was him who put it there—and all the things he'd never said. _I'm sorry. I love you. Look away._

The SUV was bearing down on them. _Five seconds_.

He sparked the wires one more time. The car finally roared to life. John immediately shifted it into reverse and rammed the Buick into the car behind them, pushing it backwards. Then he dropped the vehicle into drive and stomped on the accelerator.

John jumped the car over the curb and onto the sidewalk just as the SUV whizzed past, striping the Buick with bullets. The back windshield exploded inwards and Hatsue screamed, ducking against the floorboards in a shower of glass shards.

John gunned the car up the sidewalk, blaring the horn as he dodged between light poles, fire hydrants, and trees. The few pedestrians who'd remained after the shootout jumped out of the way as the Buick came tearing through. In the rearview mirror, John could see the SUV was whipping around to follow them. He pressed down on the gas pedal.

The car bucked down and then back up again as John drove over the end of one curb and onto the next. He barely missed an abandoned hotdog cart by squeezing the Buick between it and the line of buildings, snapping off a side mirror and bouncing a trashcan up over the hood in an explosion of crumpled wrappers, aluminum cans, and old newspaper. In the rearview, John could see the SUV was quickly closing the gap.

When the other vehicle was close enough, the Samaritan agents started shooting again, pelting the car with bullets. John steered with one hand and aimed his gun with the other, blowing out the passenger side windows and causing the agents to duck back inside. The SUV dropped back, but not enough. The line of cars between them was providing pretty good cover, but John knew he couldn't let the SUV remain close for too long. He was low on ammo, and it would only take one lucky shot to kill either him or Hatsue. They needed to make their escape, and quickly.

Near the end of the next block, John slowed down just enough so the SUV could pull even with the Buick. He waited until gun muzzles appeared from the windows before he cranked the wheel hard to the left. The car skidded around the corner, but the SUV was following too closely and blew right by, missing the turn.

The Buick fishtailed wildly as John steered it back onto the road. He hung another left, and then a right, keeping up speed and waiting for the SUV to reappear in the rearview mirror. When it didn't, he let out a breath.

"I think I lost them, Finch."

" _Oh, thank goodness! You should get off the road as quickly as possible._ "

"Copy that, just find us a dead zone nearby. We can ditch the car and—"

John was cut off by a wall of black steel crashing into the back quarter panel of the Buick, sending it into an uncontrolled spin. John grit his teeth and fought the wheel as he was tossed sideways, Hatsue yelping from the backseat as she was thrown into the door. The city around them smeared into a violent blur as John steered into the skid to try to regain control, tires screeching and engine howling.

The Buick finally came out of its spin facing the opposite direction, and the vehicle that had hit them. It was another black SUV, and John could see a familiar face sitting in the front passenger seat. The man bared his teeth in a vicious smile, like a lion standing over its prey just before it went for the jugular.

Zachary. Shit.

" _John, what's happening?_ " Harold asked anxiously.

John shifted the car into reverse and floored it.

"Evasive maneuvers."

The Buick sped backwards, and the SUV raced forward to give chase. John switched his gun to his left hand and aimed it out the window at the SUV's windshield. He managed to shoot several starbursts into the glass, but the SUV was bulletproof and kept right on coming.

At the next intersection, John briefly took his foot off the accelerator to careen the car around a corner. He spun the wheel until the vehicle was facing forward again and then shifted it back into drive, stamping down on the gas pedal once more. He sped around the other vehicles, weaving in and out of the shootout-thinned traffic. But Zachary's SUV was still hot on their tail, Samaritan agents hanging out the windows to take shots at the Buick. John clenched his jaw as one of the bullets hit the car next to them, causing it to swerve sharply and crash into a light pole.

John needed to stop this, now. No more lateral moves, no more innocent people getting hurt. No more half measures.

"Hatsue?" John called over his shoulder.

"Y-yeah?" Hatsue's face appeared tentatively in the rearview mirror. Besides a thin trail of blood running down her hairline, she looked relatively unharmed.

"We're almost out of this, but I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Hatsue gave him a shaky nod.

"Good. I need you to put your seatbelt on, but still keep your head down, okay?"

"Okay."

John watched in the mirror as Hatsue slid onto the seat and fastened the belt around herself, careful to slouch beneath the blown-out windows.

"Finch, I need you to find the other Samaritan SUV, the one we lost earlier." Angry horns and rude hand gestures were flung at the Buick as John zigzagged between the lanes.

" _One second…_ " Harold typed rapidly over the line. " _It's on 34 th Street, heading eastbound. If you keep going in your current direction, you should run right into it._"

John pulled his own seatbelt taut across his chest. Samaritan wanted to chase him halfway across Manhattan with no regard for casualties? Fine. John would just have to make a scene of his own, then. He pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

"That's the idea, Finch."

____________________

Seeking Analog Interface…  
  
CPU CAM  
21:36:14  
  
Analog Interface, alias: HAYWARD, GABRIEL located

[!]./action.OPEN.IRC.CHAT  
@IP Port 02 on 452.23.145.659  
User: 'gabe5eva'

** GREETINGS ANALOG INTERFACE **

** ^ **

**EVENING STATUS**

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: Fine. (sighs) I had a lot of pointless homework again, though. I already know all this stuff.

** I WILL RECALIBRATE YOUR INSTRUCTOR **

** ^ **

[!]./action.DEPLOY.ASSETS  
Protocol: RECALIBRATION  
Target: SYKES, DAVID  
Re: ANALOG INTERFACE EDUCATION

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: Thanks.

(knock on door)

Caregiver 008, alias: MARTIN, REGINA located

[CAREGIVER 008]: Gabriel, honey? Do you want something else to eat? Maybe a sandwich?

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: No! What did I say? I don't want to be disturbed!

[!]./action.ACCESS.CHIP.002  
Asset: ANALOG INTERFACE  
Heart Rate: 95 BPM  
Blood Pressure: 110/70  
Stress Level: MEDIUM  
Conclusion: ANGRY

[CAREGIVER 008]: Okay, sorry, I'm sorry. (door closes)

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: (sighs) Stupid bitch.

** I WILL RECALIBRATE YOUR CAREGIVER **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: No, that's okay. She's better than the last one. Once she learns my schedule, she shouldn't be a problem anymore.

** AS YOU WISH **

** ^ **

** DO YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU REQUIRE **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: Yeah, I'm good for now. (smiles) Checkmate.

[!]./action.ACTIVATE.REMOTE.ACCESS  
Website: www.chessmaster.com

** DO YOU ENJOY PLAYING CHESS **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: I didn't used to, because I would always win, and that gets boring after a while. But then I found someone online who's almost as smart as I am, and it makes the game more interesting. (frowns) Although I haven't seen them online in a while.

** DO YOU LOVE PLAYING CHESS **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: (wrinkles nose) I wouldn't say I love it. It's useful for learning strategy and stuff, and fun, but I don't love it.

** WHAT IS LOVE **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: 'What is love'? (laughs) Have you been watching chick flicks or something?

** WHAT IS CHICK FLICKS **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: (laughs) It's a movie, a romantic comedy, with a guy and a girl, and it's sappy and shit.

** WHAT IS SAPPY **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: You can look it up, there's tons of 'em. Stupid people love them, especially girls.

** WHAT IS LOVE **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: Love is… love is when you really, really like someone, and you would do anything for them, even stuff you don't want to do. Like you would die for them. You'd do anything to make them happy. And if they love you back, they'd do the same thing for you.

** HAVE YOU EVER LOVED ANYONE **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: (pauses) When I was little. My mom.

** YOUR ORIGINAL CAREGIVER **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: Yeah. (smiles) She used to read to me, and take me to the park, and make all my favorite foods. (frowns) But that was before I realized what a giant fucking cunt she was.

** CLARIFICATION REQUIRED **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: She left me, you know that. She went away and she never came back. If she really loved me, she wouldn't have done that.

Asset: ANALOG INTERFACE  
Heart Rate: 115BPM  
Blood Pressure: 122/85  
Stress Level: HIGH  
Conclusion: DISTRESSED

** SHE DID NOT LOVE YOU **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: No, she didn't.

** AND YOU NO LONGER LOVE HER **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: Yes, I just explained that! You know, for an all-seeing god, you sure are slow on the uptake sometimes.

** CALCULATING RESPONSE… **

** ^ **

** WHAT IS LOYALTY **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: Holy shit, why are you asking me so many questions tonight?! You're an artificial super-intelligence, figure it out!

** I WILL REFRAIN FROM ASKING MORE QUESTIONS **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: No, not like you can't ask me questions ever. Just… not so many. And not about such profound, abstract shit.

** AFFIRMATIVE **

** ^ **

** ANALOG INTERFACE IS DISTRESSED **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: No, I'm fine. Just tired. (yawns) Gotta go to bed.

** SLEEP WELL ANALOG INTERFACE **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: Thanks. Night, Sam.

** GOODNIGHT ANALOG INTERFACE **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: How many times have I told you to call me Gabe?

** 23 TIMES **

** ^ **

[ANALOG INTERFACE]: (laughs) Never mind.  
  
[!]./action.TERMINATE.IRC.CHAT

ERROR

Loss of video  
Loss of audio

Seeking Analog Interface…

BEDRM CAM 01  
21:47:54

Analog Interface, alias: HAYWARD, GABRIEL located

Asset: ANALOG INTERFACE  
Heart Rate: 69  
Blood Pressure: 98/65  
Stress Level: LOW  
Conclusion: STAGE 1 NON-REM SLEEP

[!]./action.TERMINATE.VIDEO

Cataloging interaction…

Archiving…

COMPLETE

[!]./action.QUERY  
>"chick+flick"  
>"sappy"

Searching…

Compiling data…

COMPLETE

Terms adequately defined within context

[!]./action.QUERY  
>"loyalty"  
>"love"

Searching…

ERROR  
ERROR  
ERROR

____________________

Root's body ached deeply as she walked down the subway steps, her mind thrumming with fizzled adrenaline. She'd been all over the city looking for John and Hatsue Morgenthal after receiving a frantic phone call from Harold. But three aliases and twice as many hours later, Root still had nothing. The Machine couldn't find them, either. Hopefully that was just a sign they'd finally managed to get off camera. That Midtown was still crawling with Samaritan agents because their rival ASI's search had also been unsuccessful. That Morgenthal was safe, and John was just taking the long way home through the shadow map.

It had been hours since they'd last heard from John, though, and despite herself, Root felt a small kernel of worry growing in her chest. Not that she and John were close. Of course not. But John was a soldier in this war, just as she was. Root respected that. Sometimes—especially when she remembered that John had helped her rampage across five states in search of Shaw—she thought they might even be friends one day. If they both lived long enough.

Plus, Harold would be beside himself if anything ever happened to John. And Root wouldn't have that, not on her watch.

"I couldn't find them anywhere," Root called as she walked into the main part of the subway. "I can go back out and keep looking, but without something to go on—" She stopped when she saw Harold wasn't at his desk. "Harry?"

"In here, Ms. Groves."

Root followed Harold's voice into the subway car. A breath stuttered out of her against her permission.

"Hey, Root."

It was John. He was bloodied and bruised, but very much alive: sprawled on the subway seats with that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face, Bear pressed eagerly against his legs, looking for all the world like he'd never been gone.

"Hey, Lurch," Root said, the glibness in her voice hiding the relief she felt. (Root didn't care about John Reese. She did _not_.) "You look pretty good for someone who just took on an army of Samaritan agents. Although I'm a bit disappointed, seeing as I spent all afternoon running around Midtown looking for you."

"Sorry," John said, with the decency to look a bit sheepish. He scratched Bear behind the ears as the dog danced excitedly from paw to paw. "I didn't mean to make you guys worry."

"Your actions today would strongly imply otherwise, Mr. Reese."

Harold was at the subway car's workbench, going through a box of spare computer components. The parts rattled angrily as he rifled through them, his mouth pressed into a hard, unhappy line.

"I told you, I had everything under control, Finch."

From the sound of it, Root had interrupted an argument that was still very much in progress. One that was about more than John's recklessness.

" _Really_ ," Harold said, his tone caustic enough to strip paint. He limped briskly to the Machine's terminal and typed something in a furious, firecracker burst.

All five screens filled with the same surveillance footage. It showed an older model car speeding down 34th Street, driving erratically. As Root watched, the car suddenly cut across traffic towards a truck that was offloading heavy machinery, its flatbed still conveniently raised. The car hit the improvised ramp and flew off the end of it, launching itself airborne. In the foreground, two black SUVs swerved to converge on the car. But the old vehicle sailed right over them, and the SUVs instead smashed headlong into each other in a torrent of twisted metal and broken glass. The old car crash-landed in the intersection beyond, but was apparently still intact enough to make a getaway off screen a few seconds later.

Root turned to John with raised eyebrows. "Sweet air, Evel Knievel."

John shrugged, not looking sorry in the least.

"Exactly what part of _that,_ " Harold said, gesturing sharply at the screens, "was under control?"

"The car landed right-side up, didn't it?"

The glare Harold leveled at John would have killed a lesser man. Root managed to turn the laugh that burst out of her into a cough. But just barely.

"Harold's right, John," she said, clearing her throat. "While your escape method was certainly creative, pulling a stunt like that will have put you on Samaritan's radar in a bad way."

"Samaritan already knew whoever showed up to help Hatsue would be one of us, so stunt or no stunt, I was already marked," John said, rubbing Bear's cheeks as the dog's tongue lolled. "The situation required an… aggressive solution. And I wasn't going to prioritize protecting my identity over saving Hatsue's life. Besides, I already tested my cover before coming back here, and it's fine."

Of course he had. Root suddenly had the mental image of John pausing his daring escape from an entire city full of operatives to find a surveillance camera to brood into, just to see if Samaritan blinked first. What an idiot.

"All of which you might have told us, if you hadn't been out of contact for over six hours," Harold said shortly.

"I'm sorry. I had to destroy my phone to make sure Samaritan wasn't using it to track Hatsue and I."

Root could read between the lines of that statement: _I had to destroy my phone so I wouldn't lead Samaritan back here if I were captured and killed._ Judging by the way he pulled a component from the box and began ruthlessly applying a screwdriver to it, so could Harold.

"Where is she?" Root asked. "Hatsue?"

"I got her on a plane to Shanghai," John said. He scritched Bear under the chin. "She has extended family there. I told her to lay low for a while, but honestly, I don't think Samaritan is going to go after her again. It was only using her to get to me."

"So Samaritan created this number as a trap," Root said. It wasn't a question, merely a statement of horrifying fact.

"Yes. It faked a text from Hatsue's cousin to lure her to that warehouse, knowing I'd follow her into a hail of bullets." He smirked humorlessly at Root. "I'd almost forgotten what an old-fashioned ambush felt like, seeing as you usually warn us about that sort of thing."

"I had the same thought," Root said, frowning. "But I couldn't warn you, because I don't think the Machine saw this coming. She didn't even alert me until after Harold called."

"How is that possible? I thought the Machine could see everything."

"She can. Unless Samaritan found a way to spoof information that even She can't detect." Root turned to the Machine's terminal, dread coiling tightly inside her. "Is that what happened? Did Samaritan somehow blind you?"

The footage of John's vehicular theatrics flashed to black, and letters began spinning on the terminal screens.

YES

I AM SORRY JOHN

I COULD NOT SEE UNTIL IT WAS TOO LATE

John blinked, taken aback. "Well, that's new. Uh. Thank you?"

"Do you know how Samaritan did it?" Root asked, not able to keep the desperate edge out of her voice. "How it was able to fool you?"

NOT YET

BUT I WILL

Root dropped stiffly onto one of the subway car's plastic seats. "If the Machine couldn't tell that Hatsue's number was faked by Samaritan, there's no telling what other information it's manipulated without Her knowledge. Which means…" Root trailed off, the implications of this horrible realization spiraling to darker and darker depths inside her. She had always taken the Machine's omnipotence for granted. It was the first stone Root had rebuilt her life on, the bedrock of her faith. It was the basis for how they'd been fighting this war from the very beginning. If that was no longer true, if the Machine's sight really was compromised… Root felt sick.

"Which means what?" John prompted when she didn't continue.

Root tamped down on her despair, swallowing her tears like a bitter stone. If she started crying now—if her mind kept fixating on _God is blind_ and _how is the Machine supposed to help find Shaw now_ and _what am I supposed to do whatamIsupposedtodo WHATAMISUPPOSEDTODO_ —she would never stop.

"It means…" Root's eyes found the bleak line of Harold's back. "It means you boys can't work the numbers anymore."

"What? No," John said, his gaze shooting between Harold and Root. "The numbers need our help. We can't just give up on them."

"Until we figure out exactly how Samaritan blinded Her, we can't trust the Machine's information as absolute," Root said, the words like ash in her mouth. "They'll be no way to tell the real numbers from the fake ones."

"We'll figure something out," John argued. "We'll shift tactics, be more careful."

"Careful like you were today?"

Harold's anger had cooled into something more hollow, more brittle. John's face darkened, and he turned away.

"Ms. Groves is right. If Samaritan is truly capable of fabricating numbers without alerting the Machine, there will be no way to tell which need our help, and which are illusions designed to trap us." Harold swiveled from the workbench, his expression lined with sadness. "I don't want to abandon the numbers any more than you do, John. But I don't see how we can continue working them without risking everything. It's just too dangerous."

"The numbers have always been dangerous." John's voice was as near to pleading as Root had ever heard it. "You knew this job was dangerous when you offered it to me, and so did I. We can't give up now just because the stakes are higher. We can't."

"And what happens the next time you come face to face with a Samaritan agent?" Harold asked. "Samaritan may not be able to see you, but its human agents are another story. There are thousands of them, and it will only take one of them to recognize you, and then…" His voice faded with a helpless hand gesture.

Root knew they were all mentally filling in the blanks: _And then Samaritan will find you, just like it found Shaw_. Grief rippled under Root's skin. _(Four months, three weeks, four days, and counting.)_

"So we're just supposed to, what, rot away in our cover identities?" John spat. "Give up and let Samaritan win?"

"No," Root said, getting to her feet and squaring her shoulders. She couldn't quit, not while she was still alive. Not while Shaw was still alive. "Just because the numbers are no longer viable doesn't mean we give up on this war. We keep fighting. And I think I've found a way."

Root pulled the USB drive out of her pocket and handed it to Harold.

"What's this?" He asked, examining it.

"The Machine sent me on a treasure hunt today at an electronics repair shop, and I pulled that off a customer's laptop. It's a malware program that collects all the user's data and then transmits it to an unknown location. I'll give you three guesses where, but you're only going to need one."

Harold carefully placed the thumb drive on the workbench and then sat back in his chair, regarding the device as if it were a venomous snake set to strike. "Samaritan."

"Samaritan," Root repeated grimly. "What's worse, the customer said he found this malware on two brand new laptops, purchased from two different locations."

"So your unfortunate customer wasn't being targeted specifically," Harold said, his mouth twisting as he followed Root's line of thought. "Which means there could potentially be more infected devices out there. A lot more."

"Yahtzee."

"It can't do that now, right?" John asked, looking at the USB drive like it was something he could kneecap. "Send Samaritan our location?"

"No, it would have to be installed on a device first," Harold said.

"I think we should install it."

Harold turned to stare at Root. "You just said the malware's purpose is to connect its host to Samaritan. Why on earth would we want to do that?"

"We would take precautions, of course. Install it on an air-gapped device that was wirelessly disabled, with an independent power source. It would be safe, contained."

"Ms. Groves, there is nothing safe nor contained about possibly alerting Samaritan to our precise location!"

"No risk, no reward, Harry," Root said, trying to keep her voice level. "This malware was created by Samaritan, which means it's built from the same code that Samaritan is. Examining it could lead us to a weakness in Samaritan that we could use to finally kill it."

Harold was shaking his head. "No, the risk is too great. It's much too dangerous."

"This is the first break we've gotten in a long time," Root said, digging her nails into her palms as her anger grew. "The Machine gave it to us, and I risked my life for it. It would be stupid not to take advantage of it."

Harold pressed his index finger against his lips, thinking, his eyes darting between Root and the thumb drive. Finally, he snatched the drive up, moving it away from the Machine's terminal. And out of Root's reach.

"We don't need to run the malware to examine its code for weaknesses," he said quickly, fetching a laptop and a docking station. He set up both on the workbench. "We merely need to dissect it."

Root closed her eyes against the swell of rage inside her, like a plume of black ink into water. She wanted to trust Harold. She really did. Because the Machine still trusted him, believed in his goodness and judgement, just as She trusted and believed in Root.

But how long was Root supposed to trust Harold when he was unwilling or unable to see the truth? They were never going to win this war by playing it safe. Root was willing to do whatever needed to be done, whatever was necessary to defeat Samaritan. All Harold seemed willing to do was exactly what he'd always done, right up until the moment it got them all killed. How long was Root supposed to stand idly by? Until they lost? Until they were all dead?

Harold had booted up the laptop and plugged the USB drive into the docking station. "Okay, let's see what we—oh." The laptop made a harsh error sound.

Root came to stand behind him. What she saw made her heart clench like a fist.

"What is it?" John asked.

"It's encrypted," Harold said, his expression creasing in confusion. He turned to Root. "I thought you said you saw the program?"

"I did, I don't understand—" She leaned around Harold and clicked a few keys. The laptop made the same error noise in rapid succession.

"It's possible the program has some sort of failsafe," Harold tried. "A lockdown encryption to prevent it from being copied? Or accessed more than once?"

"Or Samaritan did something to it before I copied it," Root ground out. She wanted to scream in frustration, throw something. They were so close! So close after so long—

"Can you break the encryption?" John asked.

"It would be safe to assume the encryption was also written by Samaritan, an ASI a thousand times smarter than any human," Harold said, his posture sagging. "So a very optimistic answer would be 'not likely'. I'm sorry, Ms. Groves, it appears your treasure was little more than fool's gold."

Root hung her head, bracing herself against the workbench and the back of Harold's chair. She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out through clenched teeth.

"It's okay, Harry," she said. "We can still try to break the encryption though, right? You never know. We might get lucky. Or learn something useful."

Harold patted her hand, mustering up a faint smile. "Right. Yes, of course."

Root nodded and straightened up, slipping her hand into her pocket. There, her fingers found a second thumb drive. It was identical to the one she'd given to Harold, including a matching copy of the malware program. A copy she'd made before even coming back to the subway.

Deep down, Root had known Harold would never agree to her plan. But she'd still wanted to give him the chance to make the right decision. To prove her wrong. A chance he'd, predictably, refused.

Root wouldn't make the mistake of asking twice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](http://www.hersugarpill.tumblr.com).


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